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THE STORY OF A WHIM 


GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL’S 


Charming and Wholesome Romances 


Re-Creations 

Tomorrow About This Time 

The Tryst 

The City of Fire 

Cloudy Jewel 

Exit Betty 

The Search 

The Red Signal 

The Enchanted Barn 

The Finding of Jasper Holt 

The Obsession of Victoria Gracen 

Miranda 

The Best Man 

Lo, Michael! 

Marcia Schuyler 
Phoebe Deane 
Dawn of the Morning 
The Mystery of Mary 
The Girl from Montana 
The Big Blue Soldier 







§5>torj) of a Wf)m 

BY 

Grace Livingston Hill 



Philadelphia & London 
T. B. Lippincott Company 

! 9 2 4 














COPYRIGHT, 1902, I903» BY THE GOLDEN RULE COMPANY 
ADDITIONS COPYRIGHT, 1 924 , BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 


; 


PRINTED BY J, B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS 
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. 


SEP 13 *24 


©C1A801S09 

^ 1 


CONTENTS 







4 


CHAPTER 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 


Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim 
A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 
“ And What Are You Going to Say to 

Her?” . 

A Letter That Wrote Itself . 

A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 

“ My Father ! ”. 

«I Love You”. 

Sad News from the North 

The Discovery. 

Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie . 

A Daring Manoeuvre. 

The Whim Completes Its Justification . 


PAG* 

II 

22 

38 

48 

63 

82 

96 

IIO 

124 

138 

152 

163 







THE 


STORY OF A WHIM 


CHAPTER I. 

FIVE GIRLS, AN ORGAN, AND THE WHIM 

“ How cold it is! Let’s walk up and down the 
platform, girls. Why doesn’t that train come?” 

“ I’m going in to see if the agent knows anything 
about it,” said one with determined mouth and big 
brown eyes. 

They waited shivering in a group until she re¬ 
turned, five girls just entering womanhood. They 
were part of a small house-party, spending Thanks¬ 
giving week at the old stone house on the hill above 
the station, and they had come down to meet another 
girl who was expected on the train. 

“ He says the train is half an hour late,” said 


ii 



12 


The Story of a Whim 


Hazel Winship, the hostess, coming down the stone 
steps of the station. 

“ What shall we do? There is not time to make 
it worth while to go back to the house. Shall we go 
inside, or walk ? ” 

“ O, walk by all means,” said Victoria Landis. 
“ It is so stuffy and hot in there I feel as if I was 
a turkey half-roasted now from the little time we 
stayed there.” 

“ Let us walk up this long platform to that 
freight-house and see the men unload that car,” pro¬ 
posed Esther Wakefield. And so it was agreed. 

“ Tra la la! ” hummed Victoria. “ O girls, why 
didn’t we stay and finish singing that glee? It 
was so pretty! Listen. Is this right?” and she 
hummed it over again. 

“ Yes, it was too bad to have to tear ourselves 
away from that dear piano,” said Ruth Summers. 
“ Say, Hazel, what are you going to do with your 
poor despised organ? Send it to a home mission¬ 
ary?” 

“ I’ll send it somewhere, I suppose. I don’t know 
any one around here to give it to. I wish I could 
send it where it would give pleasure to some one.” 

“ There are probably plenty of people who would 
be delighted with it if you only knew them. The 
owner of this forlorn furniture, for instance,” said 




Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim 13 

Victoria as they separated to thread their way be¬ 
tween boxes and chairs that had been shoved out on 
the platform from a half-emptied freight-car. 
“ Girls, just look at that funny old stove and those 
uncomfortable chairs! How would you like to set 
up housekeeping with that ? ” 

“ Housekeeping! ” said Hazel, aghast, stepping 
nearer for an intensive survey. “ How. could one 
possibly go to housekeeping with such things? Aren’t 
they pitiful! Look at the crack in the top of that 
stove! Why, girls, it must smoke horribly! I 
should hardly think it would be worth while to pay 
freight on such trash, would you? ” 

“If it were all one had,” suggested Ruth, practi¬ 
cally, “ that might make a difference. Probably 
freight is less than a new stove.” 

“Then of course there might be associations,” 
chanted Victoria, wickedly, 

“ The old iron cook stove, 

The grease covered cook stove, 

The smoking old cook stove 
That stood in my home—” 

“The couch wouldn’t be so bad if it were cov¬ 
ered,” said Hazel, poking it in a gingerly way with 
her gloved finger. “ It looks as though it might 
have been comfortable once.” 

“That’s Hazel all over!” said Esther. “If it 
were possible, she would just enjoy having that 





The Story of a Whim 


couch stay over a train or two while she re-covered it 
with some bright denim, and made a pillow for it; ” 
and clear girlish laughter rang out, while Hazel’s 
cheeks grew pink as she joined in. 

“ Well, girls, wouldn’t that be interesting? Just 
think how pleased the dear old lady who owns it 
would be when she found the new cover, and how 
entirely mystified.” 

“ You might send her your organ,” suggested 
Ruth Summers. “ Perhaps she would like that just 
as well.” 

“ What a lovely idea! ” said Hazel, her eyes shin¬ 
ing with enthusiasm. “ I’ll just do it. Come, let’s 
look for the address.” 

“You romantic little goose!” exclaimed her 
friends. “ Take her away! The perfect idea! I 
just believe she would! ” 

“ Of course I would,” said Hazel; “ why shouldn’t 
I ? Papa said I might do as I pleased with it. Here; 
this is a card behind here. Read it. ‘ Christie W. 
Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla.’ Girls, I shall do it. Who 
has a pencil? I want to write it down. Do all 
these things belong to the same person? Look on 
their cards. She must be very poor.” 

“ Poor as a church mouse,” said Victoria, “ if this 
is all she has.” 

“ I should like to inquire how you are so sure it 



Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim 15 

is a ‘she,’” said Emily Whitten; Christie’ 
sounds as though it might belong to a man or a boy. 
Don't you think so, Victoria? ” 

“ It’s an old colored mammy, I’m positive,” said 
Victoria; “ and Hazel will be simply throwing her 
organ to a lot of little pickaninnies with bare feet 
and dirty fingers, and they will smash it before 
they’ve had it a day.” 

“ I don’t care,” said Hazel of the firm mouth. 
“ If they are colored people they will enjoy it all 
the more. Colored people are fond of music, and it 
will be a real help for the little children. But I don’t 
believe Christie is an old mammy at all. She is a 
girl about our own age. She has had to go to 
Florida on account of her health, and she is poor, 
too poor to board; so she will keep house in a room 
or two,” — waving her hand toward the unpre¬ 
tentious huddling of furniture about them, — “ and 
perhaps she teaches school. She will put the organ 
in the schoolroom, or have a Sunday school in 
her own home, and I shall write her a note and send 
some music for the children to learn. She can do 
lots of nice things with that organ.” 

“ Now, Hazel,” protested five voices, but just 
then the shriek of a whistle brought them all about 
face and flying down the platform to reach the 
station before the train drew up. In the bustle of 



i6 


The Story of a Whim 


welcoming the newcomer Hazel’s scheme was for¬ 
gotten, and not until when in the evening they were 
seated about the great open fire did it again come 
into the conversation. It was Victoria Landis who 
told the newcomer about it, beginning with: “ O 
Marion, you can’t think what Hazel’s latest wild 
scheme of philanthropy is.” 

But Marion, a girl after Hazel’s own heart, lis¬ 
tened with glowing eyes. 

“ Really, Hazel ? ” she said when the tale was 
finished, looking at her hostess with sympathy. 
“ Won’t that be just lovely! You must send it 
in time for Christmas, you know; and why not 
pack a box to go with it? We could all help. It 
would be great fun, and give us something to do 
not entirely selfish while we are enjoying ourselves 
here.” 

“ Do you mean it ? ” said Victoria. “ Well, I 
will not be outdone. I will give a covering for that 
old couch, and Ruth shall make a most bewildering 
sofa pillow for it, the like of which was never seen 
in any mammy’s house in Florida. What color 
shall it be, blue or red? And will denim be fine 
enough, or do you prefer tapestry or brocatelle? 
Speak out, Hazel; we’re with you hand and heart, 
no matter how wildly you soar this time.” 



Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim 17 


And so amid laughter and jokes the plan grew. 

“ I have a lot of singing-books, if you think 
there is really a chance of a Sunday school,” said 
Esther. 

“ There must be something pretty for the house, 
a good picture perhaps,” mused Ruth Summers; and 
Hazel’s eyes grew bright with joy as she looked 
from one face to another and saw that they really 
meant what they said. 

Six pairs of hands can do much in four days; 
and, when the guests left for their various homes or 
schools, there stood on the back porch of the old 
stone house on the hill a well-packed box marked 
and labelled, an organ securely boxed, and a large 
roll, all bearing the magic sentence, “ Christie W. 
Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla.” 

There had been much discussion and argument 
on the part of Mrs. Winship and her husband. They 
were inclined to think Hazel had outdone herself 
in romance this time, though they were well used 
to such unprecedented escapades from her baby¬ 
hood; but she had finally won them all over, had 
explained how the goods had been put off at that 
particular freight-station from up the branch road, 
to be put on the through freight at the Junction, had 
enlarged upon the desolateness of the life of that 



i8 


The Story of a Whim 


young girl who was moving to Florida alone, until 
every member of the party became infected with 
pity for her, and vied with the others to make that 
Christmas box the nicest ever sent to a girl. 

They began to believe in “ Christie/’ and to 
wonder whether her name was Christine or Christi¬ 
ana, or simply Christie after some family name; 
and gradually all thought of her being other than 
a young girl faded from their minds. 

Mother Winship had so far forgotten her doubts 
as to contribute a good Smyrna rug no more in 
use in the stone house, after the party had gone 
down to the freight-house and watched the goods 
repacked in another freight-car for the Junction, 
and come back with the report that there was not 
a sign of a carpet in the lot. They also told how 
they had peeked through the crack of a box of books 
and distinctly seen the worn cover of an arithmetic, 
which proved the “ school-ma’am theory,” while an 
old blue-checked apron, visible through another 
crack, settled the sex of Christie irrevocably. 

Hazel Winship had written a long letter in her 
delicate tracery on her finest paper, and sealed it 
with a prayer, and had gone back to her college 
duties a hundred miles away, and Christmas was 
fast coming on as the three freight pieces started 
on their way. 



Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim 19 

On the edge of a clearing, where the tall pines 
thinned against the sky, and tossed their garlands 
of gray moss from bough to bough, there stood a 
little cabin built of logs. It was set up on stilts out 
of the hot white sand, and, underneath, a few 
chickens wandered aimlessly, as unaware of the 
home over their heads as mortals are of the heaven 
above them. Some sickly orange-trees, apparently 
just set out, gave the excuse for the clearing, and 
beyond the distance stretched away into desolateness 
and black-jack oaks. 

A touch of whitewash here and there and a bit 
of grass — which in that part of the world is so 
scarce that it is usually used for a path instead of 
being the setting for that path — would have done 
wonders for the place, but there was nothing but the 
white neglected, “ mushy ” sand, discouraging alike 
to wheel and foot. 

Inside the cabin there was a rusty cook-stove, 
with a sulky tea-kettle at the back and the remains 
of a meal in a greasy frying-pan still over the dead 
fire. An old table was drawn out with one leaf 
up and piled with unwashed dishes, boxes of 
crackers, and papers of various eatables. The couch 
in the comer was evidently the only bed, and the 
red and gray blankets still lay in the heap where 
they had been tossed when the occupant arose that 



20 


The Story of a Whim 


morning. From some nails in the corner hung 
several articles of clothing and a hat. The corner 
by the door was given over to tools and a few 
garden implements which were considered too good 
to leave out-of-doors. Every chair but one was 
occupied by books or papers or clothing. 

Outside the back door a dry-goods box by the 
pump with a tin basin and a cake of soap did duty 
as a wash-stand. On the whole, it was not an 
attractive home, even though sky and air were 
more than perfect. 

The occupant of this residence was driving dully 
along the sand road at the will of a stubborn little 
Florida pony, which wriggled his whole body with 
a motion intended to convey to his driver the idea 
that he was trotting as fast as any reasonable being 
could expect a horse to go, while in reality the 
monotonous sand and scrub-oaks were moving past 
as slowly as was possible. 

It was the day before Christmas, but the driver 
did not care. What was Christmas to one whose 
friends were all gone, and who never gave or 
received a Christmas gift? 

The pony, like all slow things, got there at last, 
and came trotting up to the post-office in good style. 
The driver got out of the shackly wagon, and went 



Five Girls, an Organ, and the Whim 2i< 


into the post-office, which served also as general 
store. 

“ Hollo, Chris! ” called a sickly looking man from 
the group on the counter. “ Bin a-wonderin’ when 
you was cornin’. Got some moh freight fer yoh 
oveh to the station.” 

The newcomer turned his broad shoulders about, 
and faced the speaker. 

“ I haven’t any more freight coming,” he said. 
“ It’s all come three weeks ago.” 

“ Well, but it’s oveh theh,” insisted the other, 
“ three pieces. Your name mahked plain same like 
the otheh.” 

“ Somebody sent you a Christmas gift, Chris,” 
said a tall young fellow, slapping him on the shoul¬ 
der; “ better go and get it.” 



CHAPTER II. 

A CHRISTMAS BOX THAT DIDN'T MATCH 

The young man, still insisting that the freight 
was not his, followed the agent reluctantly over to 
the station, accompanied by several of his com¬ 
panions, who had nothing better to do than to see 
the joke out. 

There it was, a box, a bundle, and a packing-case, 
all labelled plainly and most mysteriously, “ Christie 
W. Bailey, Pine Ridge, Fla.” 

The man who owned the name could scarcely 
believe his eyes. He knew of no one who would 
send him anything. An old neighbor had forwarded 
the few things he had saved from the sale of the 
old farm after his father and mother died, and the 
neighbor had since died himself; so this could 
not be something forgotten. 

He felt annoyed at the arrival of the mystery, 
and did not know what to do with the things, but 
at last brought over the wagon and reluctant pony, 


22 


A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 23 


and with the help of the other men got them loaded 
on, the pony meanwhile eying his load with dislike 
and meditating how slow he could make his gait on 
account of his burden. 

Christie Bailey did not wait at the store that 
night as long as he usually did. He had intended 
going home by moonlight, but decided to try to 
make it before the sun went down. He wanted to 
understand about that freight at once. He found 
when he went back to the post-office that he could 
not sit with the same pleasure on a nail-keg and talk 
as usual. His mind was on the wagon-load. He 
bought a few things, and started home. 

The sun had brought the short winter day sud¬ 
denly to a close, as it has a habit of doing in Florida, 
by dropping out of sight and leaving utter darkness 
with no twilight. 

Christie lighted an old lantern, and got the things 
into the cabin at once. Then he took his hatchet 
and screw-driver, and set to work. 

First the packing-case, for he instinctively felt that 
herein lay the heart of the matter. But not until 
he had taken the entire front off the case and taken 
out the handsome organ did he fully realize what 
had come to him. 

More puzzled than ever, he stood back with his 
arms folded, and whistled. He saw the key at- 



24 


The Story of a Whim 


tached to a card, and, unlocking the organ, touched 
gently one of the ivory keys with his rough finger, 
as one might touch a being from another world. 

All his life Christie Bailey had loved music. From 
the time when he lay in his mother’s arms, his head 
thrown back watching her sweet lips sing his lullabys, 
he had been enthralled by melody. It had often 
drawn him to company that otherwise would not 
have appealed to him. It had been one of his boy¬ 
hood dreams to have an instrument and take music 
lessons. Now, after all these years of longing an 
instrument had come to him, right out of the blue 
as it were! 

He stepped closer and put a timid foot upon the 
treadle, working it slowly back and forth, he tried 
a key with no result, studied the console a moment 
and drew forth a stop or two, then touched the key 
again and a long, sweet sound came forth and filled 
the little cabin with what seemed to his thrilled soul 
like an angel voice. He tried another key and then 
another, running his rough fingers awkwardly up 
and down the scale, his eyes shining, and a look of 
childlike delight upon his face. 

Then he glanced about to see where he should put 
it; and suddenly, even in the dull, smoky lamp¬ 
light, the utter gloom and neglect of the place burst 
upon him. Without more ado he selected the freest 



A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 25 

side of the room, and shoved everything out of the 
way. 

Then he brought a broom and swept it clean. 
After that he set the organ against the wall, and 
stood back to survey the effect. The disorderly 
table and the rusty stove were behind him, and 
the organ gave the spot a strange, cleared-up ap¬ 
pearance. 

He did not feel at home. He turned to the con¬ 
fusion behind him. Something must be done before 
he opened anything more. He felt somehow as if 
the organ was a visitor, and must not see his poor 
housekeeping. 

He seized the frying-pan, scraped the contents 
into the yard, and called the dog. The dishes he 
put into a wooden tub outside the door, and pumped 
water over them. Then the mass of papers and 
boxes on table and chairs he piled into the darkest 
corner on the floor, straightened the row of boots 
and shoes, and, having done all that he could, he 
came back to the roll and box still unopened. 

The roll came first. He undid the strings with 
awkward fingers, and stood back in admiration once 
more when he brought to light a thick, bright rug 
and a Japanese screen. 

He spread the rug down, and puzzled some time 
over the screen, as to its use, but finally stood it up 



26 The Story of a Whim 

in front of the worst end of the room and began 
on his box. 

There, at last, on the top was a letter in a fine, 
unknown hand. He opened it slowly, the blood 
mounting into his face, he knew not why, and read: 


“ Dear Christie : — You see I am so sure you 
are a girl of my own age that I have concluded 
to begin my letter informally, and wish you a very 
merry Christmas and a glad, bright New Year. Of 
course you may be an old lady or a nice, comfort¬ 
able, middle-aged one; and then perhaps you will 
think we are very silly; but we hope and believe 
you are a girl like ourselves, and so our hearts have 
opened to you, and we are sending you some things 
for Christmas.” 

There followed an account of the afternoon at 
the freight-station, written in Hazel's most winning 
way, in which the words and ways and almost the 
voices and faces of Victoria Landis and Ruth and 
Esther and Marion and all the rest were shadowed 
forth. 

The color on the young man's face deepened as 
he read, and he glanced up uneasily at his few poor 
chairs and miserable couch; then before he read 



A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 27 

further he went and pulled the screen along to hide 
more of the confusion. 

He read the letter through, his heart waking up 
to the world and to longings he had never known 
he possessed before, — to the world in which Christ¬ 
mas has a place and in which young, bright life 
gives forth glad impulses; read to the end even, 
where Hazel inscribed her bit of a sermon full of 
good wishes and a little tender prayer that the spirit 
of Christmas might reign in that home and that 
the organ might be a help and a blessing to all 
around. 

There was a pitiful look of almost helpless misery 
on the young man’s face when he had finished. The 
good old times when God had been a reality were 
suddenly brought into his reckless, isolated life, and 
he knew that God was God, even though he had 
neglected Him so long, and that to-morrow was 
Christmas Day. 

As a refuge from his own thoughts he turned 
back to the brimming box. 

The first article he took out was a pair of dainty 
knit lavender bedroom slippers with black and white 
ermine edges and delicate satin bows. Emily Whit¬ 
ten’s aunt had knit them for her to take to college 
with her; and, Emily’s feet being many sizes 
smaller than her aunt supposed, she had never worn 



28 


The Story of a Whim 


them, and had tucked them in at the last minute 
to make a safe resting-place for a delicate glass 
vase, which she said would be lovely to hold flowers 
for the pickaninnies, on the organ, Sundays. 

They had written their nonsense thoughts on bits 
of labels all over the things, these gay young girls; 
and the young man read and smiled, and finally 
laughed aloud. He felt like a little boy just opening 
his first Christmas stocking. 

He unpinned the paper on the couch-cover, and 
read in Victoria’s large, stylish, angular hand full 
directions for putting it on the couch. He glanced 
with a twinge of shame at the old lounge, and real¬ 
ized that these gay girls had seen all his shabby 
belongings and pitied him, and he half-resented the 
whole thing, until the delight of being pitied and 
cared for overcame his bitterness, and he laughed 
again. 

Green, soft and restful, had been chosen for the 
couch-cover; and it could not have fitted better if 
Victoria Landis had secretly had a tape-measure 
in her pocket and measured the couch, which perhaps 
she did on her second trip to the freight-house. 

Ruth Summers had made the pillows — there 
were two of them, and they were large and com¬ 
fortable and sensible, of harmonizing greens and 
browns with a gleam of gold here and there. 



A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 29 

With careful attention to the directions, the new 
owner arrayed his old lounge, and placed the pil¬ 
lows as directed, “ with a throw and a pat, not laid 
stiffly,” from a postscript in Ruth’s clear feminine 
hand. Then he stood back in awe that a thing so 
familiar and so ugly could suddenly assume such 
an air of ease and elegance. Would he ever be able 
to bring the rest of the room up to the same 
standard ? 

But the box invited further investigation. There 
was a bureau set of dainty blue and white, a cover 
for the top and a pincushion to match. There were 
also a few yards of the material and a rough sketch 
with directions for a possible dressing-table, to be 
made of a wooden box in case Christie had no 
bureau. 

It was from Emily Whitten, and she said she 
could not remember seeing a bureau among the 
things, but she was sure any girl would know how 
to fix one up, and perhaps be glad of some new 
fixings for it. 

At these things the young man looked helplessly, 
and finally went out into the moonlight, and hunted 
up an old box which he brushed off with the broom 
and brought inside, where he clumsily spread out 
the blue and white frills over its splintery top, and 



30 


The Story of a Whim 

then solemnly tried to stick a pin into the cushion, 
fumbling in the lapel of his coat for one. 

He was growing more and more bewildered with 
his new possessions, and as each came to light he 
began to wonder how he was going to be able to 
entertain and keep up to such a lot of fineries. 

Mother Winship had put in a gay knit afghan 
which looked well over the couch, and next came 
a layer of Sunday-school singing-books, a Bible, and 
some lesson leaves. A card said that Esther Wake¬ 
field had sent these and she hoped they would be 
a help in the new Sunday school. 

There followed a roll of blackboard cloth, a large 
cloth map of Palestine, and a box of chalk; and 
the young man grew more and more helpless. This 
was worse than the bureau set and the slippers. 
What was he to do with them all? He start a 
Sunday school! He would be much more likely to 
start children in the opposite way from heaven if he 
went on as he had been going the last two years. 

His face hardened, and he was almost ready to 
sweep the whole lot back into the box, nail them 
up, and send them back where they came from. 
What did he want of a lot of trash with a set 
of such burdensome obligations attached ? 

But curiosity made him go back to see what there 



A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 311 


was left in the box, and a glance around his room 
made him unwilling to give up all this luxury. 

He looked curiously at the box of fluffy lace 
things with Marion Halstead’s card lying atop. He 
could only guess that they were some girl’s fixings, 
and he wondered vaguely what he should do with 
them. Then he unwrapped a photograph of the six 
girls which had been hurriedly taken and was in¬ 
scribed, “ Guess which is which,” with a list of 
their names written on a circle of paper like spokes 
to a wheel. 

He studied each face with interest, and somehow 
it was for the writer of the letter that he sought, 
Hazel Winship. And he thought he should know 
her at once. 

This was going to be very interesting. It would 
while away some of the long hours when there was 
nothing worth while to do, and keep him from 
thinking how long it took orange groves to pay, 
and what hard luck he had always had. 

He decided at first glance that the one in the centre 
with the clear eyes and firm, sweet mouth was the 
instigator of all this bounty; and, as his eyes 
travelled from one face to another and came back 
to hers each time, he felt more sure of it. There 
was something frank and pleasant in her gaze. 
Somehow it would not do to send that girl back her 



32 


The Story of a Whim 


things and tell her he was in no need of her charity. 
He liked to think she had thought of him, even 
though she did think of him as a poor discouraged 
girl or an old mammy. 

He stood the picture up against the lace of the 
pincushion, and forever gave up the idea of trying 
to send those things back. 

There seemed to be one thing more in the 
bottom of the box, and it was fastened inside 
another protecting board. He took it at last from 
its wrappings — a large picture, Hofmann's head 
of Christ, framed in broad dark Flemish oak to 
match the tint of the etching. 

Dimly he understood who was the subject of 
the picture, although he had never seen it before. 
Silently he found a nail and drove it deep into the 
log of the wall. Just over the organ he hung it, 
without the slightest hesitation. He had recog¬ 
nized at once where this picture belonged, and knew 
that it, and not the bright rug, nor the restful 
couch, nor the gilded screen, nor even the organ 
itself, was to set the standard henceforth for his 
home and his life. 

He knew this all in an undertone, without its 
quite coming to the surface of his consciousness. 
He was weary by this time, with the unusual excite¬ 
ment of the occasion, and much bewildered. He 



A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 33 

felt like a person suddenly lifted up a little way 
from the earth and obliged against his will to walk 
along unsupported in the air. 

His mind was in a perfect whirl. He looked 
from one new thing to another, wondering more 
and more what they expected of him. The ribbons 
and lace of the bureau fixings worried him, and the 
lace collars and pincushion. What had he to do 
with such? Those foolish little slippers mocked 
him with a something that was not in his life, 
a something for which he was not even trying to 
fit himself. The organ and the books and, above 
all, the picture seemed to dominate him and de¬ 
manded of him things which he could never give. 
A Sunday school! What an absurdity! He! 

And the eyes in the picture seemed to look into 
his soul, and to say, all quietly enough, that He 
had come here now to live, to take command of 
this home and its occupant. 

He rebelled against it, and turned away from 
the picture. He seemed to hate all the things, and 
yet the comfort of them drew him irresistibly. 

In sheer weariness at last he put out his light, 
and, wrapping his old blankets about him, lay down 
upon the rug; for he would not disturb the couch 
lest the morning should dawn and his new dream 
of comfort look as if it had fled away. Besides, 



34 


The Story of a Whim 


how was he ever to get it together again? And, 
when the morning broke and Christie awoke to the 
splendor of his things by daylight, the wonder 
of it all dawned, too, and he went about his work 
with the same spell still upon him. 

Now and again he would raise his eyes to the 
pictured Christ and drop them again, reverently. 
It seemed to him this morning as if that Presence 
were living and had come to him in spite of all his 
railings at fate, his bitterness and scoffing, and his 
reckless life. It seemed to say with that steady 
gaze: “What will you do with me? I am here, 
and you cannot get away from my drawing.” 

It was not as if his life had been filled formerly 
with tradition and teaching; for his mother had 
died when he was a little fellow, and the thin¬ 
lipped, hard-working maiden aunt who had cared 
for him in her place, whatever religion she might 
have had in her heart, never thought it necessary 
to speak it out beyond requiring a certain amount 
of decorum on Sunday and regular attendance at 
Sunday school. 

In Sunday school it had been his lot to be under 
a good elder who read the questions from a lesson 
leaf and looked helplessly at the boys who were 
employing their time in more pleasurable things 
the while. The very small amount of holy things 



A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 35 


he had absorbed from his days at Sunday schools 
had failed to leave him with a strong idea of the 
love of God or any adequate knowledge of the 
way to be saved. 

In later years, of course, he had listened listlessly 
to preaching; and, when he went to college, — a 
small, insignificant one, — he had come in contact 
with religious people; but here, too, he had heard 
as one hears a thing in which one has not the 
slightest interest. 

He had gathered and held this much, that the 
God in whom the Christian world believed was holy 
and powerful, and the most of the world were 
culprits. Heretofore God’s love had passed him 
by unaware. 

Now the pictured eyes of the Son of God seemed 
to breathe out tenderness and yearning. For the 
first time in his life a thought of the possibility of 
love between his soul and God came to him. 

His work that morning was much more com¬ 
plicated than usual. He wasted little time in get¬ 
ting breakfast. He had to clean house. He could 
not bear the idea that the old regime and the new 
should touch shoulders as they did behind that 
screen. So with broom and scrubbing-brush he 
went to work. 



36 


The Story of a Whim 


He had things in pretty good shape at last, 
and was just coming in from giving the horse a 
belated breakfast when a strange impulse seized 
him. 

At his feet, creeping all over the white sand in 
delicate tracery, were wild pea blossoms, crimson, 
white, and pink. He had never noticed them be¬ 
fore. What were they but weeds? But with a 
new insight into possibilities in art, he stooped and 
gathered a few of them, and, holding them 
awkwardly, went into the house to put them into 
his new vase. He felt half-ashamed of them, and 
held them behind him as he entered; but with the 
shame there mingled an eagerness to see how they 
would look in the vase on the “ blue bureau thing/ - ' 

“ { Will you walk into my parlor ? * 

Said the spider to the fly, 

’Tis the prettiest little parlor 
That ever you did spy, ’ ” 


sang out a rich tenor voice in greeting. 

“I say, Chris! What are you setting up for? 
What does it all mean ? Ain’t going to get married 
or nothing, are you, man? because I’ll be obliged 
to go to town and get my best coat out of pawn 
if you are." 



A Christmas Box That Didn’t Match 37 


“ Aw, now that is gweat! ” drawled another 
voice, English in its accents. “ Got anything good 
to dwink? Twot it out, and we’ll be better able 
to appweciate all this lugshuwy! ” 



CHAPTER III. 


“and what are you going to say to her?” 

The young man felt a rising tendency to swear. 
He had forgotten all about the fellows and their 
agreement to meet and have the day out in jollifica¬ 
tion. So great had been the spell upon him that 
he had forgotten to put the little feminine things 
away from curious eyes. 

There he stood foolishly in the middle of his 
own floor, a bunch of “ weeds ” in his hand which 
he had not the sense to drop, while afar the sound 
of a cracked church bell gave a soft reminder, 
which the distant popping of firecrackers at the 
negroes’ cabin down the road confirmed, that this 
was Christmas Day. Christmas Day, and the face 
of the Christ looking down at him tenderly from 
his own wall. 

The oath that was rising to his lips at his foolish 
plight was stayed. He could not take that name in 
38 


“ What Are You Going to Say to Her? ” 39 


vain with those eyes upon him. The spell was not 
broken even yet. 

With a sudden quick setting of his lips, he threw 
back his head, daring in his eyes, and walked over 
to the glass vase to fill it with water. It was like 
him to brave it out and tell the whole story now 
that he was caught. 

He was a broad-shouldered young man, firmly 
knit, with a head well set on his shoulders, and 
but for a certain careless slouch in his gait might 
have been fine to look upon. His face was not 
handsome, but he had good brown eyes with deep 
hazel lights in them that kindled when he looked 
at you. 

His hair was red, deep and rich, and decidedly 
curly. His features were strong and regular. If 
there had not been a certain hardness about his face 
he would have been interesting, but that look made 
one turn away disappointed. 

His companions were both big men like himself. 
The Englishman — one of that large class of sec¬ 
ond or third sons with a good education and a 
poor fortune, and very little practical knowledge 
how to better it, so many of whom come to Florida 
to try orange-growing — was loose-jointed and 
awkward, with pale blue eyes, hay-colored hair, and 
a large jaw with loose lips. The other was hand- 



40 The Story of a Whim 

some and dark, with a weak mouth and daring 
black eyes which continually warred with one 
another. 

Both were dressed in rough clothes, trousers 
tucked into boots with spurs, dark flannel shirts, 
and soft riding-hats. The Englishman wore gloves 
and affected a certain loud style in dress. They 
carried their riding-whips, and walked undismayed 
upon the bright colors of the rug. 

“ O, I say now, get off there with those great 
clods of boots, can’t you ? ” exclaimed Christie, with 
a sudden descent of housewifely carefulness. 
“Anybody’d think you’d been brought up in a 
bam, Armstrong.” 

Armstrong put on his eye-glasses, — he always 
wore them as if they were a monocle, — and exam¬ 
ined the rug carefully. 

“Aw, I beg pawdon! Awfully nice, ain’t it? 
Sorry I didn’t bwing my patent leathers along. 
Wemind me next time, please, Mawtimer.” 

Christie told the story of his Christmas gifts in 
as few words as possible. Somehow he did not 
feel like elaborating it. 

The guests seized upon the photograph of the 
girls, and became hilarious over it. 

“ Takes you for a girl, does she?” said Morti¬ 
mer. “ That’s great! Which one is she ? I 



“ What Are You Going to Say to Her? ” 411 


choose that fine one with snapping black eyes and 
handsome teeth. She knew her best point, or she 
wouldn’t have laughed when her picture was taken.” 

Victoria Landis’s eyes would have snapped in¬ 
deed, could she have heard the comments upon 
herself and the others; but she was safe out of 
hearing, far up in the North. 

The comments went on most freely. Christie 
found himself disgusted with his friends. Only 
yesterday he would have laughed at all they said, 
and now what made the difference? Was it that 
letter? Would the other fellows feel the same if 
he should read it to them? 

But he never would! The red blood stole up 
in his face. He could hear their shouts of laughter 
now over the tender little girlish phrases. It should 
not be desecrated. He was glad indeed that he had 
put it in his coat pocket the night before. 

There seemed to be a sacredness about the letter 
and the pictures and all the things, and it went 
against the grain to hear the coarse laughter of 
his friends. 

At last they began to speak about the girl in 
the centre of the group, the clear-eyed, firm¬ 
mouthed one whom he had selected for Hazel. His 
blood boiled. He could stand it no longer. With 
one sweep of his long, strong arm he struck the 



42 


The Story of a Whim 


picture from them with “ Aw, shut up! You make 
me tired! ” and, picking it up, put it in his pocket. 

Whereat the fun of his companions took a new 
turn. It suited their fancy to examine the toilet- 
table decked out in blue and lace. The man named 
Mortimer knew the lace collars and handkerchiefs 
for woman’s attire, and they turned upon their 
most unwilling host and decked him in fine array. 

He sat helpless and mad, with a large lace collar 
over his shoulders, and another hanging down in 
front arranged over the bureau-cover, which was 
spread across him as a background, while a couple 
of lace-bordered handkerchiefs adorned his head. 

“ And what are you going to say to her for all 
these pretty presents, Christie, my girl ? ” laughed 
Mortimer. 

“ Say to her! ” gasped Christie. 

It had not occurred to him before that it would 
be necessary to say anything. A horrible oppres¬ 
sion seemed to be settling down upon his chest. 
He wished that the whole array of things were back 
in their boxes and on their way to their ridiculous 
owners. He got up, and kicked at the rug, and 
tore the lace finery from his neck, stumbling on the 
lavender bedroom slippers which his tormentors 
had stuck on the toes of his shoes. 

“ Why, certainly, man, — I beg your pardon, — 



“ What Are You Going to Say to Her? ” 43 


my dear girl — ” went on Mortimer. “ You don’t 
intend to be so rude as not to reply, or say, ‘ I 
thank you very kindly ’! ” 

Christie’s thick auburn brows settled into a frown 
and his jaw shut firmly: 

“ Cut that out, Mort! ” he said crisply, “ I’m 
not going to be made a monkey of any longer, and 
I’m telling you right now. You know I mean it. 
I’m done! ” 

His companions looked at him with an instant 
respect. They knew his tone and knew that he would 
take no trifling in a mood like that. They had had 
experience before with his red-haired temper, as 
they called it. Mortimer took on a conciliatory tone: 

“Only a joke, old boy! Surely you understand,” 
he said politely. “ We’re really tickled to death over 
your good fortune. Makes a kind of oasis in the 
desert of existence for us all.” 

Christie Bailey made no reply. He went about 
with offended air, picking up the scattered finery 
and putting it carefully away in an old chest of 
drawers, Armstrong, meantime, was looking about 
the room, noting the change that had been wrought. 
He brought up suddenly before the picture and 
stood for a moment silently surveying it. 

“That’s awfully fine, don’t you know?” 
he remarked, levelling his eye-glasses at the 




44 


The Story of a Whim 


picture. “ It’s by somebody gw eat, I dawn just 
wemembah who.” 

“ Fine frame,” said Mortimer tersely as he 
opened the organ and sat down before it. 

And the new owner of the picture felt for the 
first time in his acquaintance with these two men 
that they were somehow out of harmony with him. 

He glanced up at the picture with the color 
mounting in his face, half pained for the friendly 
gaze that had been so lightly treated. He did not 
in the least understand himself. 

But the fingers touching the keys now were not 
altogether unaccustomed. A soft, sweet strain broke 
through the room, and swelled louder and fuller 
until it seemed to fill the little log house and be 
wafted through the open windows to the world 
outside. 

Christie stopped in his walk across the room, held 
by the music. It seemed the full expression of 
all he had thought and felt during the last few 
hours. 

A few chords, and the player abruptly reached 
out to the pile of singing-books above him, and, 
dashing the book open at random, began playing, 
and in a moment in a rich, sweet tenor sang. The 
others drew near, and each took a book and joined 
in. 



* Whit Arc You Going to Say to Her ? 71 45 


* He lords dre key at aZ 
Azd I 2a. gad: 

If scier rrands sdocid sc Id die key. 
Or it He tristed rt to ore, 

I aagjbt be sad.' 5 ' 


The song was a new creed spoken to Christie’s 
scul by a voice that seemed to fit the eyes in the 
picture. What was the matter with him? He did 
net at ad know. His whole life seemed suddenly 


It may be that the fact of his long residence alone 
in that desolate land. with bet few acquaint¬ 
ances. had made him more ready to be swayed by 
this sueden stirring of new thoughts and feelings. 
Certain it was that Christie Bailey was not acting 
like himself. 

Bar the others were rrteested in the singing. 
It had beet long since they had had an instrument 
to acc ompa ny th em, and they enjoyed the sound 
cf their own voices. They would have preferred, 
remaps, a beck of college songs, or, better still, 
the latest street songs: but. as they were not at 
hand, and * Gospel Hymns ** were, they found 
pleasure even in these. 

On and cn thev sang, through h y mn after hymn, 
their voices growing stronger as they found pieces 
which had in them some hint of familiarity. 











46 


The Story of a Whim 


The music filled the house, and floated out into 
the bright summer Christmas world outside; and 
presently Christie felt rather than saw a movement 
at the window, and, looking up, beheld it dark with 
little, eager faces of the negro children. Their 
supply of firecrackers having given out, they had 
sought for further celebration, and had been drawn 
with delight by the unusual sounds. Christie 
dropped into a chair and gazed at them in wonder, 
his eyes growing troubled and the frown deepening. 
He could not make it out. Here he had been for 
some time, and these little children had never ven¬ 
tured to his premises. Now here they were in full 
force, their faces fairly shining with delight, their 
eyes rolling with wonder and joy over the music. 

It seemed a fulfilment of the prophecy of the 
letter that had come with the organ. He began to 
tremble at the thought of the possibilities that might 
be entailed upon him with his newly acquired and 
unsought-for property. And yet he could not help 
a feeling of pride that all these things were his 
and that a girl of such evident refinement and culti¬ 
vation had taken the trouble to send them. To 
be sure, she wouldn’t have done it at all if she 
had had any idea who or what he was, but that 
did not matter. She did not know, and she never 
would know. 



“ What Are You Going to Say to Her? ” 47 


He saw the children’s curious eyes wander over 
the room and rest here and there delighted, and 
his own eyes followed theirs. How altogether 
nice it was! What a desolate hole it had been 
before! How was it he had not noticed? 

Amid all these thoughts the concert came sud¬ 
denly to a close. The organist turned upon his 
stool, and, addressing the audience in the window, 
remarked, with a good many flourishes: “ That 
finishes the programme for to-day, dear friends. 
Allow me to announce that a Sunday school will 
be held in this place on next Sunday afternoon at 
half-past two o’clock, at which you are all invited 
to be present. Do you understand ? Half-past two. 
And bring your friends. Now will you all come? ” 

Amid many a giggle and a bobbing of round 
black heads they answered as one boy and one girl, 
“Yes, sah!” and went rollicking down the road 
in haste to spread the news, their bare feet flying 
through the sand, and vanished as they had come. 



CHAPTER IV. 


A LETTER THAT WROTE ITSELF 

“ What did you do that for?” thundered 
Christie, suddenly realizing what would be the 
outcome of this performance. 

“ Don’t speak so loud, Christie, dear; it isn’t 
ladylike, you know. I was merely saving you the 
trouble of announcing the services. You’ll have 
a good attendance, I’m sure, and we’ll come and 
help you out with the music,” said Mortimer in 
a sweetly unconscious tone. 

Christie came at him with clenched fist, which 
he laughingly dodged, and went on bantering. 
But the two young men soon left, for Christie was 
angry and was not good company. They tried to 
coax him off to meet some of their other boon com¬ 
panions, but he answered shortly, “ No,” and they 
left him to himself. 

Left alone, he was in no happy frame of mind. 
He had intended to go with them. There would 

48 


“ A Letter That Wrote Itself ” 


49 


be something good to eat, and of course something 
to drink, and cards, and a jolly good time all around. 
He would forget for a little while his hard luck, 
and the slowness of the oranges, and his own 
wasted life, and feel some of the joy of living. 
But he had the temper that went with his hair, and 
now nothing would induce him to go. 

Was it possible there was something else, too, 
holding him back? A subtle something which he 
did not understand, somehow connected with the 
letter and the picture and the organ? 

Well, if there was, he did not stop to puzzle it 
out. Instead, he threw himself down on the newly 
arrayed couch, and let his head sink on one of those 
delightfully soft pillows, and tried to think. 

He took out the letter, and read it over again. 

When he read the sentences about praying for 
him, there came a choking sensation in his throat 
such as he had not felt since the time he nearly 
drowned, and realized that there was no mother any 
more to go to. This girl wrote as a mother might 
perhaps talk, if one had a mother. 

He folded the letter, and put it back in his pocket; 
and then, closing and locking the door, he sat 
down at the organ and tried to play it. 

As he knew nothing whatever about music, he 
did not succeed very well, and he turned from it 



50 


The Story of a Whim 


with a sigh to look up at those pictured eyes once 
more and find them following his every movement. 
Some pictures have that power of seeming to follow 
one around the room. 

Christie got up and walked away, still looking 
at the picture, and turned and came back again. 

Still the eyes seemed to remain upon his face 
with that strong, compelling gaze. He wondered 
what it meant, and yet he was glad it had come. It 
seemed like a new friend. 

Finally he sat down and faced the question that 
was troubling him. He must write a letter to that 
girl — to those girls, and he might as well have 
done with it at once and get it out of the way. 
After that he could feel he had paid the required 
amount, and could enjoy his things. But it simply 
was not decent not to acknowledge their receipt. 
But the tug of war was to know how to do it. 

Should he confess that he was a young man 
and not the Christie they had thought, and offer to 
send back the things for them to confer upon a 
more worthy subject? 

He glanced hastily about on his new belongings 
with sudden dismay. Could he give up all this? 
No. He would not. 

His eyes caught the pictured eyes once more. 
He had found a friend and a little comfort. It 



“A Letter That Wrote Itself” 


5i 


had come to him unbidden. He would not bid it 
depart. 

Besides, it would only make those kind people 
most uncomfortable. They would think they had 
been doing something dreadful to send a young 
man presents, especially one whom they had never 
seen. He knew the ways of the world, a little. 
And that Hazel Winship who had written the letter, 
she was a charming person. He would not like 
to spoil her pretty dream of his being a friend¬ 
less girl. Let her keep her fancies; they could do 
no harm. 

He would write and thank her as if he were the 
girl they all supposed him. He had always been 
good at playing a part or imitating any one; he 
would just write the letter in a girlish hand — it 
would not be hard to do— and thank them as 
they expected to be thanked by another girl. That 
would be the end of it. Then, when his oranges 
came into bearing, — if they ever did, — he would 
send them each a box of oranges anonymously, and 
all would be right. 

As for that miserable business Mortimer had got 
him into, he would fix that up by shutting up the 
house and riding away early Sunday morning, and 
the pickaninnies might come to Sunday school to 



52 The Story of a Whim 

their hearts’ content. He would not be there to be 
bothered or bantered. 

In something like a good humor he settled to 
his task. 

He wrote one or two formal notes, and tore 
them up. As he looked about on the glories of his 
room, he began to feel that such thanks were inade¬ 
quate to express his feelings. Then he settled to 
work once more, and began to be interested. 

“ My dear unknown Friend,” he wrote, “ I 
scarcely know how to begin to thank you for the 
kindness you have showered upon me.” 

He read the sentence over, and decided it sounded 
very well and not at all as if a man had written 
it. The spirit of fun took possession of him, and 
he made up his mind to write those girls a good 
long letter, and tell them all about his life, only 
tell it just as if he were a girl. It would while 
away this long, unoccupied day. He wrote on: 

“You wanted to know all about me; so I am 
going to tell you. I do not, as you suppose, teach 
school. I had a little money from the sale of father’s 
farm after he died, and I put it into some land down 
here planted to young orange-trees. I had heard 
a great deal about how much money was to be 
made in orange-growing, and thought I would like 
to try it. I am all alone in the world — not a soul 



“A Letter That Wrote Itself” 


S 3 


who cares in the least about me, and so there was 
no one to advise me against it. 

“ I came down here and boarded at first, but 
found it would be a good thing for me to live 
among my trees, so I could look after things better; 
so I had a little cabin built of logs right in the 
grove, and sent for all the old furniture that had 
been saved from the old home, which was not much, 
as most things had been sold with the house. You 
saw how few and poor they were. 

“ It seems so strange to think that you, who 
evidently have all the good things of the world 
to make you happy, should have stopped to think 
and take notice of poor, insignificant me. It is 
wonderful, more wonderful than anything that 
ever happened to me in all my life. I look about 
on my beautified room, and cannot believe it is I. 

“ I live all alone in my log cabin, surrounded 
by a lot of young trees which seem to me very 
slow in doing anything to make me rich. If I 
had known all I know now, I never would have 
come here; but one has to learn by experience, and 
I'll just have to stick now until something comes 
of it. 

“ I am not exactly a girl just like yourselves as 
you say; for I am twenty-eight years old, and, to 
judge by your pictures, there isn't one of you as 



54 


The Story of a Whim 


old as that. You are none of you over twenty-two, 
I am sure, if you are that. 

“ Besides, you are all beautiful girls, while I 
most certainly am not. To begin with, my hair is 
red, and I am brown and freckled from the sun 
and wind and rain; and, in fact, I am what is 
called homely. So you see it is not as serious 
a matter for me to live all alone down here in an 
orange-grove as it would be for one of you. I have 
a strong little pony who carries me on his back 
or in my old buckboard, and does the ploughing. 
What work I cannot do myself about the grove, 
I hire done, of course. I also have a few chickens 
and a dog. 

“If you could have seen my little house the night 
your boxes arrived and were unpacked, you would 
appreciate the difference the things you have sent 
make in my surroundings. But you can never 
know what a difference they will make in my life.” 

Here the rapid pen halted, and the writer won¬ 
dered whether that might be a prophecy. So far, 
he reflected, he had written nothing but what was 
strictly true; and yet he had not made known his 
identity. 

This last sentence seemed to be writing itself, 
for he really had no idea that the change in his 
room would make much difference in his life, ex- 



“ A Letter That Wrote Itself” 


55 


cept to add a little comfort. He raised his eyes; 
and, as they met those in the picture, it seemed to 
be forced upon him that there was to be a differ¬ 
ence, and somehow he was not sorry. The old life 
was not attractive, but he w'ondered what it would 
be. He felt as if he were standing off watching 
the developments in his own life as one might watch 
the life of the hero in a story. 

There was one more theme in Hazel Winship’s 
letter which he had not touched upon, he found, 
after he had gone over each article by name and 
said nice things about them all and what a lot 
of comfort he would have from them. 

He was especially pleased with his sentence about 
the bedroom slippers and lace collars. “ They are 
much too fine and pretty to be worn,” he had 
written, “ especially by such a large, awkward 
person as I am; but I like to feel them and see 
them, and think how pretty they would look on 
some of the dainty, pretty girls who sent them to 
me.” 

“ But all the time he was reading his letter over 
he felt that something would have to be said on 
that other subject. At last he started in again: 

“ There is a negro cabin down the road a little 
way, and this morning a friend of mine came in 
and played a little while on the organ — I can’t play 



56 


The Story of a Whim 


myself, but I am going to learn ” — he had not 
thought about learning before, but now he knew 
he should — “ and we all got to singing out of 
the books you sent. By and by I looked up, and 
saw the doorway full of little black heads listening 
for all they were worth. I presume I shall be 
able to give them a good deal of pleasure listening 
to that organ sometimes, though I am afraid I 
wouldn’t be much of a hand at starting a Sunday 
school ” — that sentence sounded rather mannish 
for a girl of twenty-eight; but he had to let it 
stand, as he could think of nothing better to say 
— “as I never knew much about such things. 
Though I’m much obliged for your praying, I’m 
sure. It will give me a pleasant feeling at night 
when I’m all alone to know some one in the world 
is thinking about me, and I’m sure if prayers can 
do any good yours ought to. 

“ But about the Sunday school, I don’t want to 
disappoint you after you’ve been so kind to send all 
the papers and books. Maybe I could give the 
colored folks some of the papers, and let them study 
the lessons out for themselves; and I used to be 
quite a hand at drawing once. I might practise 
up and draw them some pictures to amuse them 
sometime when they come around again. I’ll do my 
best. 



“A Letter That Wrote Itself” 


57 


“ I like to think of you all at college having a 
good time. My school days were the best of my 
life. I wish I could go over them again. I have 
a lot of books; but, when I come in tired at night, 
it seems so lonely here, and I’m so tired I just go 
to sleep. It doesn’t seem to make much difference 
about my reading any more, anyway. The 
oranges won’t know it. They grow just as soon 
for me as if I kept up with the procession. 

“ I appreciate your kindness, though I don’t 
know how to tell you how deeply it has touched 
me. I have picked out the one in the middle, the 
girl with laughing eyes, and a sweet, firm mouth, 
and the loveliest expression I ever saw on any face, 
to be Miss Hazel Winship, the one who thought 
of this whole beautiful plan. Am I right? I’ll 
study the others up later. 

“ Yours very truly, — ” here he paused, and, 
carefully erasing the last word, wrote “ lovingly,” 
“ Christie W. Bailey.” 

He sat back, and covered his face with his hands. 
A queer, glad feeling had come over him while 
he was writing those things about Hazel Winship. 
He wondered what it w'as. He actually enjoyed 
saying those things to her and knowing she would 



58 The Story of a Whim 

be pleased to read them, and not think him imperti¬ 
nent. 

And he had written a good many promises, after 
all. What led him on to that? Did he mean to 
keep them? Yes, he believed he did; only those 
fellows, Armstrong and Mortimer, should not know 
anything about it. He would carry out his plan of 
going away Sundays until those ridiculous fellows 
forgot their nonsense. And, so thinking, he folded 
and addressed his letter. 

A little more than a week later six girls gathered 
in a cosey college room — Hazel’s — to hear the 
letter read. 

“ You see,” said Hazel, with triumphant light in 
her eyes, “ I was right; she is a girl like us. It 
doesn’t matter in the least little bit that she is 
twenty-eight. That isn’t old. And for once I am 
glad you see that my impulses are not always crazy. 
I am going to send this letter home at once to 
father and mother. They were really quite trouble¬ 
some about this. They thought it was the wildest 
thing I ever did, and I’ve been hearing from it 
all vacation. Now listen! ” 

And Hazel read the letter amid many interrup¬ 
tions. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, girls,” she said, as 



“ A Letter That Wrote Itself ” 


59 


she finished the letter; “ we must keep track of 
her now we’ve found her. I’m so glad we did it. 
She isn’t a Christian, that’s evident; and we must 
try to make her into one, and work through her a 
Sunday school. That would be a work worth 
doing. Don’t you think so? She would be our 
missionary down among those poor people. I think 
that would be grand. We can get together all the 
helps for modern Sunday school teaching, the Pic¬ 
ture Charts and Wall Rolls, and Maps, you know, 
and little cards with golden texts—Oh, it will be so 
interesting. I saw some cards with the Ten Com¬ 
mandments printed in the form of numbers, each 
commandment printed in its own number, and mark¬ 
ings for stitches of bright wool to outline them, 
regular kindergarten work, you know. I think it 
will be just fascinating, don’t you, Ruth? There 
ought to be a set of those cunning little books 
of the Bible, too, and a model of the temple. 
We’ll get to know all their needs in a little 
while. Then maybe sometime we can have hei* 
up here for a winter, and give her a change. 
Wouldn’t she enjoy it? It can’t be this winter, 
because we’ll have to work so hard here in college 
we’d have no time for anything else; but after 
we have all graduated wouldn’t it be nice? I’ll tell 
you what I’d like to do; I’d like the pleasure of 



6o 


The Story of a Whim 

taking Christie Bailey to Europe. I know she 
would enjoy it. Just think what fun it would be 
to watch her eyes shine over new things. I don't 
mind her red hair one bit. Red-haired people are 
lovely if they know how to dress to harmonize with 
their complexions.” 

“ How fortunate we used green for that couch- 
cover! Christie's hair will be lovely against it,” 
murmured Victoria, in a serio-comic tone, while 
all the girls set up a shout at Hazel’s wild flights 
of fancy. 

“ Take Christie Bailey to Europe! O, Hazel! 
I’m afraid you will be simply dreadful, now you 
have succeeded in one wild scheme. You will 
make us do all sorts of things, and never stop at 
reason.” 

Hazel’s cheeks flushed. It always hurt her a 
little that these girls did not go quite as far in her 
philanthropic ideas as she did herself. She had 
quite taken this Christie girl into her heart, and 
she wanted them all to do the same. 

“ Well, girls, you must all write to her, anyway, 
and encourage her. Think What it would be to be 
down there, a girl, all alone, and raising oranges. 
I think she is a hero! ” 

“ O, we’ll all write, of course,” said Victoria, 



“ A Letter That Wrote Itself ” 


61 


with mischief in her eye; “ but call her a heroine, 
do, Hazel.” 

And they all did write, letters full of bright 
nonsense, and sweet, tender, chatty letters, and 
letters full of girlish pity, attempts to make life 
more bearable to the poor girl all alone down in 
Florida. But a girl who confesses to being homely 
and red-haired and twenty-eight cannot long hold 
a prominent place in the life of any but an enthusi¬ 
ast such as Hazel was, and very soon the other 
five letters dropped off, and Christie Bailey was 
favored with but one correspondent from that 
Northern college. 

But to return to Florida. That first Sunday 
morning after Christmas, everything did not go 
just as was planned by Christie. 

In the first place, he overslept. He had discov¬ 
ered some miserable scales on some of his most 
cherished trees, and he had had to trudge to town 
Saturday morning, — the man was using the pony 
ploughing, — and get some whale-oil soap, and 
then spend the rest of the day until dark spraying 
his trees. It was no wonder that he was too tired 
to wake early the next day. 

Then, when he finally went out to the pony, he 
discovered that he was suffering from a badly cut 



62 


The Story of a Whim 


foot, probably the result of the careless hired man 
and a barbed-wire fence. The swollen foot needed 
attention. 

The pony made comfortable, he reflected on 
what he would do next. To ride on that pony away 
anywhere was impossible. To walk he was not 
inclined. The sun was warm for that time of year, 
and he still felt stiff from his exertions of the day 
before. He concluded he would shut up the house, 
and lie down, and keep still when any one came 
to call, and they would think him away. 

With this purpose in view he gave the pony and 
the chickens a liberal supply of food, that he need 
not come out again till evening, and went into the 
house; but he had no more than reached there 
when he heard a loud knocking at the front door, 
evidently with the butt end of a whip; and before 
he could decide what to do it was thrown open, 
and Mortimer and Armstrong entered, another 
young Englishman following close behind. Arm¬ 
strong wore shiny patent-leather shoes, and seemed 
anxious to make them apparent. 

“ Good mawning, Miss Bailey,” he said, affably. 
“Glad to see you looking so fresh and sweet. We 
just called round to help you pwepare for your 
little Sunday school.” 



CHAPTER V. 

A SUNDAY SCHOOL IN SPITE OF ITSELF 

Christie was angry. He stood still, looking 
from one to another of his three guests like a wild 
animal at bay. They knew he was angry, and that 
fact contributed not a little to their enjoyment. 
They meant to carry out the joke to the end. 

The third man, Rushforth by name, stood grin¬ 
ning in the rear of the other two. The joke had 
been so thoroughly explained to him that he could 
fully appreciate it. He was not noted for being 
quick at a joke. Armstrong, however, seemed to 
have a full sense of the ridiculous. 

Firmly and cheerfully they took their way with 
Christie; and he, knowing that resistance was 
futile, sat down upon his couch in glum silence, 
and let them work their will. 

“ I stopped on the way over, and reminded our 
friends in the cabin below that the hour was two- 
63 


6 4 


The Story of a Whim 


thirty,” remarked Mortimer, as he took a large 
dinner-bell from his side pocket and rang a note 
or two. “ That’s to let them know the time when 
we are ready to ‘ take up.’ ” 

Christie scowled, and the others laughed uproari¬ 
ously. 

“ Now, Armstrong, you and I will go out and 
reconnoitre for seats, while Rushforth stays here 
and helps this dear girl dust her parlor ornaments 
and brickbats. We’ll need plenty of seats, for we’ll 
have quite a large congregation if all I’ve asked 
turn out.” 

They came back in a few minutes laden with 
boxes and boards which they ranged in three 
rows across the end of the cabin facing the organ. 

Christie sat and glared at them. 

He was very angry, and was trying to think | 
whether to bear it out and see what they would 1 
do next, or run away to the woods. He had little 
doubt that if he should attempt the latter they 
would all three follow him, and perhaps bind him 
to a seat to witness the performances they had 
planned; for they were evidently “ taking it out 
of him ” for having all this luxury and not taking 
them into the innermost confidences of his heart 
about it. 

He shut his teeth and wondered what Hazel 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 65 


would say if she knew howi outrageously her idea 
of a Sunday school was going to be burlesqued. 

Armstrong tacked up the blackboard, and got 
out the chalk. Then, discovering the folded cloth 
map of the Holy Land, he tacked that up at the 
end wall where all could see it. Mortimer mapped 
out the programme. 

“ Now, Rushforth, you pass the books and the 
lesson leaves, and I’ll stay at the organ and preside. 
Miss Christie’s a little shy about speaking out 
to-day, you see, and we’ll have to help her along 
before we put her in the superintendent’s place. 
Christie, you can make some pictures on the black¬ 
board. Anything’ll do. This is near Christmas 
— you can make Santa Claus coming down the 
chimney if you like. That’ll please the darkies. 
Anything to make ’em laugh. I’ll run the music, 
and we’ll have quite a time of it. We’ll be able 
to tell the fellows all about it down at the lake next 
week, and I shouldn’t wonder if we’d have a dele¬ 
gation over from Mulberry Creek next Sunday 
to hear Elder Bailey speak — I beg pardon; I 
mean Miss Bailey. You must excuse me, dear; 
on account of your freckles I sometimes take you 
for a man.” 

Mortimer spread open a Bible that had come 
with the singing-books, and actually found the 



66 


The Story of a Whim 


place in the lesson leaf, and made them listen while 
he read, and declared that Christie ought to give a 
talk on the lesson. And thus they carried on their 
banter the whole morning long. 

Christie sat glowering in the corner. 

He could not make up his mind what to do. For 
some strange reason he did not want a Sunday 
school caricatured in his house and with that picture 
looking down upon it all, and yet he did not know 
why he didn’t want it. He had never been squeam¬ 
ish before about such things. The fellows would 
not understand it, and he did not understand it 
himself. But it went against the grain. 

Now as it came on about dinner-time he thought 
they would perhaps go if he offered no refresh¬ 
ments; but no; they seemed to have no such idea. 
Instead, they sent Armstrong outside to their light 
wagon they had left tied at the tree by the roadside, 
and he came back laden with a large basket which 
they proceeded to unpack. 

There were canned meats and jellies and pickles 
and baked beans and all sorts of canned goods that 
have to be substituted for the genuine article in 
Florida, where fresh meat and vegetables are not 
always to be had. 

Armstrong went out again, and this time came 
back with a large case of bottles. 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 67 

He set it down with a thump on the floor just 
opposite the picture, while he shut the door. The 
clink of the bottles bespoke a hilarious hour, and 
carried memories of many a time of feasting in 
which Christie had participated before. 

His face crimsoned as if some honored friend 
had suddenly been brought to look upon the worst 
of his hard, careless life, and he suddenly rose with 
determination. Here was something which he 
could not stand. 

He drank sometimes, it is true. The fellows all 
knew it. But both he and they knew that the worst 
things they had ever done in their lives had been 
„ done and said under the influence of liquor. They 
all had memories of wild debauches of several 
days’ duration, when they had been off together 
and had not restrained themselves. Each one knew 
his own heart’s shame after such a spree as this. 
Each knew the other’s shame. They never spoke 
about it, but it was one of the bonds that bound 
them together, these drunken riots of theirs, when 
they put their senses at the service of cards and 
wine, and never stopped until the liquor had given 
out. At such times each knew that he would have 
sold his soul for one more penny to stake at the 
game, or one more drink, had the devil been about 
in human form to bid for it. 



68 


The Story of a Whim 


They were none of them drunkards, few of them 
even constant drinkers, partly because they had 
little money to spend in such a habit. They all had 
strong bodies able to endure much, and their life out- 
of-doors did not tend to create unnatural cravings 
of appetite. Rather had they forced themselves 
into these revelries as a means of amusing them¬ 
selves in a land where there was little but work 
to fill up the long months and years of waiting. 

This case of liquor was not the first that had been 
in Christie’s cabin. He had never felt before that 
it was out of place in entering there; but now the 
picture hung there, and the case of liquor, repre¬ 
senting as it did all evil in his life, all careless liv¬ 
ing and denial of God, seemed to Christie a direct 
insult to the One whose presence had in a mysterious 
way crept into the cabin with the picture. 

Also he saw at a flash what the fellows were 
planning to do. They knew his weakness. They 
remembered how skilled his tongue was in turning 
phrases when loosened by intoxicants. They were 
planning to get him drunk — perhaps had even 
drugged some of the bottles slightly — and then to 
make him talk, and even pray, it might be! 

At another time this might have seemed funny 
to him. He had not realized before how far he had 
been going in the way from truth and righteousness.. 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 69 

But now his whole soul rose up in loathing of him¬ 
self, his ways, and his companions. 

A sentence of his mother's prayer for him when 
he was but a little child that had not been in his 
mind for years now came as clear as if a voice had 
spoken it in his ear, “ God make my little Chris a 
good man! ” 

And this was how it had been answered. Poor 
mother! 

What Hazel Winship would think of the scene 
also flashed into his mind. He strode across that 
room in his angry strength before his astonished 
companions could stop him; and, taking that case 
of liquor in his muscular arms, he dashed it far out 
the open door across the road and into the woods. 
Then he turned back to the three amazed men. 

“ You won’t have any of that stuff in here! ” he 
said firmly. “ If you’re bound to have a Sunday 
school, a Sunday school we’ll have; but we won’t 
have any drunken men at it. Perhaps you enjoy 
mixing things up that way, but I’m not quite a 
devil yet.” 

They had not known there was such strength in 
him. He looked fairly splendid as he stood there 
in the might of right, his deep eyes glowing darker 
brown and every mahogany curl a-tremble with de¬ 
termination. 



70 


The Story of a Whim 


“ Aw! Certainly! Beg pawdon! ” said Arm¬ 
strong, settling his eye-glasses that he might observe 
his former friend more closely. “ I meant no hawm, 
I’m suah.” Armstrong was always polite. If an 
earthquake had thrown him to the ground, he would 
have arisen and said, “ Awl! I beg pawdon! ” 

But Christie was master in his own house. The 
others exclaimed a little, and tried to joke him upon 
his newly acquired temperance principles; but he 
would not open his lips further on the subject, and 
they ate their canned meats and jellies and bread 
moistened only by water from Christie’s pump in 
the yard. 

They had scarcely finished when the first instal¬ 
ment of the Sunday school arrived in faded but 
freshly starched calicoes laundered especially for 
the occasion. They pattered to the door barefooted, 
clean, and shining, followed by some of their el¬ 
ders, who lingered smiling and shy at the gateway, 
uncertain whether to credit the invitation to “ Mr. 
Christie’s ” cabin. Mr. Christie had never been so 
hospitable before. But the children, spying the 
rudely improvised benches, crept in, and the others 
followed. 

Christie stood scowling in the back end of the 
cabin. Sunday school was on his hands. He could 
not help it any more than he could help the coming 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 71 

of the organ and the picture. It was a part of his 
new possessions. 

He felt determined that it should not be a farce. 
How he was going to prevent it he did not know, 
but he meant to do it. 

He looked up at the picture again. It seemed 
to give him strength. Of course it was but fancy 
that it had seemed to smile approval after he had 
flung that liquor out the door; but in spite of his 
own reason he could not but feel that the Man of 
the picture was enduring insult here in his house, 
and that he must fight for His sake. 

Added to that was Hazel Winship’s faith in him 
and her desire for a Sunday school. His honor was 
at stake. He would never have gone out and gath¬ 
ered up a Sunday school to nurse into life, even 
for Hazel Winship. Neither would he have con¬ 
sented to help in one if his permission had been 
asked; but now, when it was, as it were, thrust 
upon him, like a little foundling child all smiling 
and innocent of possible danger to it, what could 
he do but help it out ? 

They were all seated now, and a hush of expect¬ 
ancy pervaded the room. 

The three conspirators over by the organ were 
consulting and laughing in low tones. 

Christie knew that the time had come for action. 



72 


The Story of a Whim 


He raised his eyes to the picture once more. To 
his fancy the eyes seemed to smile assurance to 
his as he went forward to the organ. 

Christie quietly took up a singing-book, and, 
opening at random, said, “ Let us sing number 
one hundred and thirty-four.” He was surprised 
when they began to sing to find it was the same 
song that Mortimer had sung first on Christmas 
morning. 

His three friends turned in astonishment toward 
him. They began to think he was entering into the 
joke like his own old self, but instead there was a 
grave, earnest look on his face they had never seen 
there before. 

Mortimer put his fingers on the keys, and began 
at once. Christie seemed to have taken the play 
out of their hands and turned the tables upon them. 
They began to wonder what he would do next. 
This was fine acting on his part, they felt, for him 
to take the predicament in which they had placed 
him and work it out in earnest. 

The song was almost finished, and still Christie 
did not know what to do next. 

He announced another hymn at random, and 
watched old Aunt Tildy settle her steel-bowed spec¬ 
tacles over her nose and fumble among the num¬ 
bers. The Sunday school was entering into the 



A Sunday School in Spite of^Itself 73 

music with zest. The male trio who led were 
singing with might and main, but with an amused 
smile on their faces as if they were attending a 
musical comedy and expected some rare fun to 
follow. Christie frowned and sang on, the words 
blurring before his excited vision. His heart was 
thumping in a strangely wild way for the heart of 
a young man who wasn’t afraid of anything in 
Florida from a gun to a rattlesnake, and who had 
the name of having more nerve than any man in 
the bunch. He couldn’t quite understand his own 
feelings, but somehow he couldn’t bear to have this 
thing turn out nothing but horseplay. The eyes of 
the picture seemed to be watching. It was like the 
presence of One who was in close touch with those 
girls who had sent it, and it almost seemed as if 
perhaps word might be sent back to them that their 
gift had been desecrated. Even the thought of such 
a thing brought a choking sensation to his throat. 
What did they do in Sunday Schools anyway besides 
singing and reading the lesson? Why, prayed, of 
course, but he couldn’t pray. That was out of the 
question. He wasn’t fit for such service even if he 
knew what to say, and besides if he were to attempt 
it, the fellows would raise the roof. 

Just then an aged negro came hobbling in. His 
hair and whiskers were white and his worn Prince 



74 


The Story of a Whim 


Albert coat ill fitted his bent figure; but there was 
a clerical manner which clung to the old coat and 
gave Christie hope. When the song was finished, 
he raised his eyes without any hesitation and spoke 
clearly. 

“ Uncle Moses,” he said, “ we want to begin right, 
and you know all about Sunday schools; can’t you 
give us a start ? ” 

Uncle Moses slowly took off his spectacles, and 
put them carefully away in his pocket while he 
cleared his throat. 

“ I ain’t much on speechifyin’, Mistah Bailey,” 
said he; “but I kin pray. ’Kase you see when I’s 
talkin’ to God den I ain’t thinkin’ of my own sinful, 
stumblin’ speech.” 

The choir did not attempt to restrain their risibles, 
but Christie was all gravity. 

“ That’s it, Uncle. That’s what we need. You 
pray.” It came to him to wonder for an instant 
whether Hazel Winship was praying for her Sun¬ 
day school then, too. 

All during the prayer Christie wondered at him¬ 
self. He conducting a religious service in his own 
house and asking somebody to pray! And yet, as 
the trembling, pathetic sentences rolled out, he felt 
glad that homage was being rendered to the Pres- 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 75 


ence that seemed to have been in the room ever since 
the picture came. 

“ O our Father in heaven, we is all poll sinnahs! ” 
said Uncle Moses, earnestly, and Christie felt it 
was true, himself among the number. It was the 
first prayer that the young man ever remembered to 
have felt all the way through. “ We is all sick 
and miserable with the disease of sin. We’s got 
it bad, Lord ” — here Christie felt the seat behind 
him shake. Mortimer was behaving very badly. 
a But, Lord,” went on the quavering old voice, “ we 
know dere’s a remedy. Away down in Palestine, 
in de Holy Land, in an Irish shanty, was where de 
fust medicine-shop of de world was set up, an’ we 
been gettin’ de good ob it eber sence. O Lord, we 
praise thee to-day for de little chile dat lay in dat 
manger a long time ago, dat brung de fust chance 
of healing to us poh sinners — ” 

Mortimer could scarcely contain himself, and the 
two Englishmen were laughing on general princi¬ 
ples. Christie raised his bowed head, and gave 
Mortimer a warning shove, and they subsided some¬ 
what; but the remarkable prayer went on to its 
close, and to Christie it seemed to speak a new 
gospel, familiar, and yet never comprehended before. 
Could it be that these poor, ignorant colored people 
were to teach him a new way? 



76 


The Story of a Whim 


By the time the prayer was over, he had lost 
his trepidation. The spirit of it had put a deter¬ 
mination into him to make this gathering a success, 
not merely for the sake of foiling his tormentors, 
but for the sake of the trusting, childlike children 
who had come there in good faith. 

He felt a little exultant thrill as he thought of 
Hazel Winship and her commission. He would try 
to do his best for her sake to-day at least, what¬ 
ever came of it in future. Neither should those 
idiots behind him have a grand tale of his breaking 
down in embarrassment to take away to the fellows 
over at the lake. 

Summoning all his daring, he gave out another 
hymn, which happened fortunately to be familiar 
to the audience, and to have many verses; and 
he reached for a lesson leaf. 

O, if his curiosity had but led him to examine 
the lesson for to-day, or any lesson, in fact! He 
must say something to carry things off, and he must 
have a moment to consider. The words swam before 
his eyes. He could make nothing out of it all. 

Dared he ask one of the other fellows to read 
the Scripture lesson while he prepared his next line 
of action? 

He looked at them. They were an uncertain 
quantity, but he must have time to think a minute. 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 77 


Armstrong was the safest. His politeness would 
hold him within bounds. 

When the song was finished, he handed the leaflet 
to Armstrong, saying, briefly, “ You read the verses, 
Armstrong.” 

Armstrong in surprise answered, “ Aw, cer¬ 
tainly,” and adjusting his eye-glasses, began, “ Now 
when Jesus was bawn in Bethlehem — ” 

“ Hallelujah! ” interjected Uncle Moses, with his 
head thrown back and his eyes closed. He was so 
happy to be in a meeting once more. 

“ Aw! I beg pahdon, suh! What did you say? ” 
said Armstrong, looking up innocently. 

This came near to breaking up the meeting, at 
least, the white portion of it; but Christie, a gleam 
of determination in his eye because he had caught 
a little thread of a thought, said gruffly: “ Go on, 
Armstrong. Don’t mind Uncle Moses.” 

When the reading was over, Christie, annoyed by 
the actions of his supposed helpers, seized a riding- 
whip from the corner of the room and came for¬ 
ward to where the map of Palestine hung. As he 
passed his three friends, he gave them such a glare 
that instinctively they crouched away from the whip, 
wondering whether he were going to inflict instant 
punishment upon them. But Christie was only bent 
on teaching the lesson. 



78 


The Story of a Whim 

This is a map,” he said. “ How many of you 
have ever seen a map of Florida? ” 

Several children raised their hands. 

“Well, this isn’t a map of Florida; it’s a map 
of Palestine, that place that Uncle Moses spoke 
about when he prayed. And Bethlehem is on it 
somewhere. See if you can find it anywhere. Be¬ 
cause that’s the place that the verses that were just 
read tell about.” 

Rushforth suddenly roused to helpfulness. He 
espied Bethlehem, and at the risk of a cut with the 
whip from the angry Sunday-school superintendent 
he came forward and put his finger on Bethlehem. 

Christie’s face cleared. He felt that the waters 
were not quite so deep, after all. With Bethlehem 
in sight and Aunt Tildy putting on her spectacles, 
he felt he had his audience. He turned to the black¬ 
board. 

“ Now,” said he, taking up a piece of yellow 
chalk, “ Fm going to draw a star. That was one 
of the first Christmas things that happened about 
that time. While Fm drawing it, I want you to 
think of some of the other things the lesson tells 
about; and, if Fean, I’ll draw them.” 

The little black heads bobbed eagerly this side and 
that to see the wonder of a star appear on the 
smooth black surface with those few quick strokes. 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 79 


“ I reckon you bettah put a rainbow up ’bove de 
stah, fer a promise,” put in old Uncle Moses, “ ’cause 
the Scripture say somewhere, ‘ Where is de promise 
of His cornin’ ? * An’ de rainbow is His promise 
in de heavens.” 

“ All right,” said Christie, breathing more freely, 
though he did not quite see the connection. And 
soon a rainbow arch glowed at the top over the star. 
Then began to grow desire to see this and that 
thing drawn, and the scholars, interested beyond 
their leader’s wildest expectations, called out: 
“ Manger, wise men! King! ” 

Christie stopped at nothing from a sheep to an 
angel. He made some attempt to draw everything 
they asked for. 

And his audience did not laugh. They were 
hushed into silence. Part of them were held in 
thrall by overwhelming admiration for his genius, 
and the other part by sheer astonishment. The 
young men, his companions, looked at Christie with 
a new respect, and gazed gravely from him to a 
shackly cow, which was intended to represent the 
oxen that usually fed from the Bethlehem manger, 
and wondered. A new Christie Bailey was before 
them, and they knew not what to make of him. 

For Christie was getting interested in his work. 
The blackboard was almost full, and the perspiration 



8o 


The Story of a Whim 


was standing out on his brow and making little 
damp, dark rings of the curls about his forehead. 

“ There's just room for one more thing. What 
shall it be, Uncle Moses?” he said as he paused. 
His face was eager and his voice was interested. 

“ Better write a cross down, sah, ’cause dat’s de 
reason of dat baby’s cornin’ into dis world. He 
come to die to save us all.” 

“ Amen! ” said Aunt Tildy, wiping her eyes and 
settling her spectacles for the last picture, and 
Christie turned with relief back to his almost finished 
task. A cross was an easy thing to make. 

He built it of stone, massive and strong; and, as 
its arms grew, stretched out to save, something of 
its grandeur and purpose seemed to enter his mind 
and stay. 

“ Now let’s sing ‘ Rock of Ages,’ ” said Uncle 
Moses, closing his eyes with a happy smile, and 
the choir hastily found it and began. 

As the Sunday school rose to depart, and shuffled 
out with many a scrape and bow and admiring glance 
backward at the glowing blackboard, Christie felt 
a hand touch his arm; and, glancing down, he saw 
a small girl with great, dark eyes set in black fringes 
gazing up at the picture above the organ, her little 
bony hand on his sleeve. 



A Sunday School in Spite of Itself 8ii 


“ Is dat man yoh all’s fader ? ” she asked him, 
timidly. 

A great wave of color stole up into Christie’s 
face. 

“ No,” he answered. “ That is a picture of Jesus 
when He grew up to be a man.” 

“ O! ” gasped the little girl, in admiration, “ did 
you done draw dat? Did you all evah see Jesus? ” 

The color deepened. 

“ No, I did not draw that picture,” said Christie; 
“ it was sent a present to me.” 

“ O,” said the child, disappointed, “ I thought 
you’d maybe seed Him sometime. But He look 
like you, He do. I thought He was you all’s fader.” 

The little girl turned away, but her words lingered 
in Christie’s heart. His Father! How that stirred 
some memory! His Father in heaven! Had he 
perhaps spoken wrong when he claimed no relation¬ 
ship with Jesus, the Christ? 



CHAPTER VI. 

“ MY FATHER ! ” 

The three young men who had come to play a 
practical joke had stayed to clear up. Gravely and 
courteously they had gone about the work, had piled 
the hymn-books neatly on the top of the organ, and 
placed the boards and boxes away under the house 
for further use if needed, for the entire Sunday 
school had declared, upon leaving the house with a 
bow and a smile, “ I’ll come again next Sunday, 
Mistah Christie; I’ll come every Sunday.” And 
Christie had not said them nay. 

The young men had bade a quiet good evening 
to their host, not once calling him “ Miss Christie,” 
had voted the afternoon a genuine success, and were 
actually gone. 

Christie sank to the couch, and looked into the 
eyes looking down upon him. 

He was tired. O, he was more tired than he 
had ever been in his life before! He was so tired 
82 


“My Father!”83 

he would like to cry. And the pictured eyes seemed 
yearning to comfort him. 

He thought of the words of the little black girl. 
“ Is dat man you’s fader?” 

“ My Father!” he said aloud. “My Father!” 
The words echoed with a pleasant ring in the little 
silent, lonely room. He did not know why he said 
it, but he repeated it again. 

And now if the traditions of his childhood had 
been filled with the Bible, a host of verses would 
have flocked about him; but, as his mind had not 
been filled with holy things, he had it all to learn, 
and his ideas of the Man, Christ Jesus, were of the 
vaguest and crudest. And perhaps, as to the chil¬ 
dren of old, God was speaking directly to his heart. 

Christie lay still and thought. Went over all his 
useless life, and hated it; went over the past week 
with its surprises, and then over the strange after¬ 
noon. His own conduct seemed to him the most 
surprising, after all. Npw why, just zvhy, had 
he thrown that case of liquor out of the door, and 
why had he gone ahead with that Sunday school? 
There was a mysterious power at work within him. 
Was the secret the presence of the Man of the 
picture ? 

The sun dropped over the rim of the flat, low 
horizon, and left the pines looming dark against a 



8 4 


The Story of a Whim 


starry sky. All the earth went dark with night. 
And Christie lay there in the quiet darkness, yet 
not alone. He kept thinking over what the little 
girl had said to him, and once again he said it out 
loud in the hush of the room, “ My Father! ” 

But, as the darkness grew deeper, there seemed 
to be a luminous halo up where he knew the picture 
hung, and while he rested there with closed eyes 
he felt that presence growing brighter. Those kind 
eyes were looking down upon him out of the dark 
of the room. 

This time he called, “ My Father! ” with recogni¬ 
tion in his voice, and out from the shadows of his 
life the Christ stepped nearer till He stood beside 
the couch, and, stooping, blessed him, breathed His 
love upon him, while he looked up in wonder and 
joy. And, perhaps because he was not familiar with 
the words of Christ, the young man was unable to 
recall in what form those precious words of blessing 
had fallen upon his ear during the dream, or trance, 
or whatever it might be, that had come upon him. 

When the morning broke about him, Christie, 
waking, sat up and remembered, and decided that it 
must have been a dream induced by the unusual 
excitement of the day before; yet there lingered 
with him a wondrous joy for which he could not 
account. 



“My Father 1 ”85 

Again and again he looked at the picture rever¬ 
ently, and said under his breath, “ My Father.” 

He began to wonder whether he was growing 
daft. Perhaps his long loneliness was enfeebling 
his mind that he was so susceptible to what he had 
always considered superstition. Yet there was such 
a sense of blessedness he shrank from finding it a 
mere hallucination. “ My Father! ” He said it over 
again in wonder that he had never realized it before. 
His mother had taught him that God was his Father 
and now he knew that he had always believed it 
even though he had not let it make a difference in 
his life. It had always been good to know that 
there was a Father to Whom he could resort if 
everything else failed. Stated frankly that was a 
contemptible way to live, all for one’s self and no 
thought of the One you meant to turn to in trouble, 
but that was really what he had been doing. 

A sense of shame filled his heart. It was not that 
single sins separated themselves and accused him, 
so much as that he felt the sin of unbelief in Christ, 
and of neglecting the love of God included all the 
other sins. If he had been walking with God they 
never would have been. 

Then in sudden surrender of the old self he lifted 
his eyes to the picture and breathed, “ My Father, 
forgive me! ” and turned wonderingly, eagerly 



86 The Story of a Whim 

toward the new self that was being born within 
him. 

He went about his work singing, 

“He holds the key of all unknown, 

And I am glad — ” 

“ Well, I am glad! ” he announced aloud, as if 
some one had disputed the fact he had just stated. 
“ About the safest person to hold the key, after all, 
I guess; ” and even as a maiden might steal a glance 
to the eyes of her lover, so the soul in him glanced 
up to the eyes of the picture. 

The dog and the pony rejoiced as they heard their 
master’s cheery whistle, and Christie felt happier 
that day than he had since he was a little boy. 

Towards night he grew quieter. He was revolving 
a scheme. It would be rather interesting to write 
out an account of the Sunday school, not, of course, 
the part the fellows had in it, for that must not be 
known, but just the pleasant part, about Uncle Moses 
and Aunt Tildy. He would write it to Hazel 
Winship, — not that it was likely he would ever 
send it, but it would be pleasant work to pretend to 
himself he was writing her another letter. He had 
not enjoyed anything for a long time as much as 
he enjoyed writing that letter to her the other day. 

Perhaps after a long time, if she ever answered 



“My Father!” 


87 


his letter, — and here he suddenly realized that he 
was cherishing a faint hope in his heart that she 
would answer it, — he might revise this letter and 
send it to her. It would please her to know he w&s 
trying to do his best with a Sunday school for her, 
and she would be likely to appreciate some of the 
things that had happened. He would do it; he 
would do it this very evening. 

He hurried through his day’s work with a zest. 
There was something to look forward to in the 
evening. It was foolish, perhaps, but surely no more 
foolish than his amusements the last four years 
had been. It was innocent, at least, and could do 
no one any harm. 

Then, as he sat down to write, he glanced instinc¬ 
tively to the picture. It still wove its spell of the 
eyes about him, and he had not lost the feeling that 
Christ had come to him, though he had never made 
the slightest attempt or desired to come to Christ. 
And under the new influence he wrote his thoughts, 
as one might wing a prayer, scarce believing it would 
ever reach a listening ear, yet taking comfort in 
the sending. And so he wrote: 

My dear new Friend: — I did not expect to 
write to you again; at least, not so soon; for it 
seems impossible that one so blessed with this 



88 


The Story of a Whim 


world’s good things should have time or care to 
think twice of one like me. I do not even know 
now whether I shall ever send this when it is written, 
but it will while away my lonely evening to write, 
and give me the pleasure of a little talk with a 
companion whom I much appreciate, and if I never 
send it, it can do no harm. 

“ It is about the Sunday school. You know I 
told you I could never do anything like that; I 
did not know how; and I never dreamed that I 
could — or would, perhaps I ought to say — more 
than to give the negroes the papers you sent and let 
them hear the organ sometimes. But a very strange 
thing has happened. A Sunday school has come 
to me in spite of myself. 

“ The friend who was playing the organ this 
Christmas morning, when the colored children stood 
at the door listening, in jest invited them to a Sun¬ 
day school, and they came. I was vexed because I 
did not know what to do with them. Then, too, the 
friend came, bringing two others; and they all 
thought it was a huge joke. I saw they were going 
to act out a farce; and, while I never had much 
conscience about these things before, I seemed to 
know that it would not be what you would like. 
Then, too, that wonderful picture that you sent 



“My Father 1 ”89 

disturbed me. I did not like a laugh at religion with 
that picture looking on. 

“ You may perhaps wonder at me. I do not 
understand myself, but that picture has had a 
strange effect upon me. It made me do a lot of 
things Sunday that I did not want to do. It made 
me take hold and do something to make that Sunday 
school go right. I didn’t know how in the least. 
Of course I’ve been to Sunday school; I did not 
mean that; but I never took much notice of things, 
how they were done; and I was not one to do it, 
anyway. I felt my unfitness dreadfully, and all 
the more because those friends of mine were here, 
and I knew they were making fun. I made them 
sing a lot, and then I asked old Uncle Moses to help 
us out. I wish I could show you Uncle Moses.” 

Here the writer paused, and seemed to be debating 
a point a moment, and then rapidly wrote: 

“ I’ll try to sketch him roughly.” 

There followed a spirited sketch of Uncle Moses 
with both hands crossed atop his heavy cane, his 
benign chin leaning forward interestedly. One 
could fairly see how yellow with age were his whit¬ 
ened locks, how green with age his ancient coat. 
Christie had his talents, though there were few out¬ 
lets for them. 



90 


The Story of a Whim 


It is of interest to note just here that, when this 
letter reached the Northern college, as it did one 
day, those six girls clubbed together, and laughed 
and cried over the pictures, and finally, after due 
council, Christie Bailey was offered a full course 
in a famous woman’s college of art. This he smiled 
over and quietly declined, saying he was much too 
old to begin anything like that, which required that 
one should begin at babyhood to accomplish anything 
by it. This the girls sighed over and argued over, 
but finally gave up, as they found Christie wouldn’t. 

But to return to the letter. Christie gave a 
full account of the prayer, which had touched his 
own heart deeply. Then he described and sketched 
Aunt Tildy with her spectacles. He had a secret 
longing to put in Armstrong with his glasses and 
the incident of his interruption with the Bible- 
reading; but, as that would reflect somewhat upon 
his character as an elderly maiden, to be found 
consorting with three such young men, he restrained 
himself. But he put an extra vigor into the front 
row of little black heads with rolling eyes, bobbing 
this way and that, singing with might and main. 

“ I knew they ought to have a lesson next, but 
I didn’t know how to teach it any better than I 
know how to make an orange-tree bear in a hurry. 
However, I determined to do my best. I happened 



“ My Father! ” 


9i 


to remember there had been something said in what 
was read about a star; so I made one, and told them 
each to think of something they had heard about in 
that lesson that they wanted me to draw. That 
worked first-rate. They tried everything, pretty 
near, in the encyclopaedia, and I did my best at each 
till the whole big blackboard was full. I wish you 
could see it. It looks like a Noah’s ark hanging up 
there on the wall now, for I have not cleaned it 
off yet. I keep it there to remind me that I really 
did teach a Sunday-school class once. 

“ When they went away, they all said they were 
coming again, and I don’t doubt they’ll do it. I’m 
sure I don’t know what to do with them if they do, 
for I’ve drawn all there is to draw; and, as for 
teaching them anything, they can teach me more 
in a minute than I could teach them in a century. 
Why, one little pickaninny looked up at me with 
her big, round, soft eyes, for all the world like my 
faithful dog’s eyes, so wistful and pretty, and asked 
me if that picture on the wall was my father. 

“ I wish I knew more about that picture. I know 
it must be meant for Jesus Christ. I am not quite 
so ignorant of all religion as not to see that. There 
is the halo with the shadow of the cross above His 
head. And, when the sun has almost set, it touches 
there, and the halo seems to glow and glow almost 



92 


The Story of a Whim 

with phosphorescent light until the sun is gone and 
leaves us all in darkness; and then I fancy I can 
see it yet glow out between the three arms of the 
cross. 

“ And now I do not know why I am writing this. 
I did not mean to do so when I began, but I feel 
as if I must tell of the strange experience I had 
last night.” 

And then Christie told his dream. Told it till 
one reading could but feel as he felt, see the vision 
with him, yearn for the blessing, and be glad and 
wonder always after. 

“ Tell me what it means,” he wrote. “ It seems 
as if there was something in this presence for me. 
I cannot believe that it is all imagination, for it 
would leave me when day comes. It has set me 
longing for something, I know not what. I never 
longed before, except for my oranges to bring me 
money. When I wanted something I could not 
have, heretofore, I went and did something I knew 
I ought not, just for pleasure of doing wrong, a sort 
of defiant pleasure. Now I feel as if I wanted to 
do right, to be good, like a little child coming to its 
father. I feel as if I wanted to ask you, as that 
little soul asked me yesterday, ‘ Do you all’s know 
that Man ? ’ ” 

Christie folded his letter, and flung it down upon 



“My Father!” 


93 


the table with his head upon his hands. With the 
writing of that experience the strength seemed to 
have gone out of him. He felt abashed in its pres¬ 
ence. He seemed to have avowed something, to 
have made a declaration of desire and intention for 
which he was hardly ready yet; and still he did not 
want to go back. He was like a man groping in 
the dark, not knowing where he was, or whether 
there was light, or whether indeed he wanted the 
light if there was any to be had. 

But before he retired that night he dropped upon 
his knees beside his couch, with bowed and reverent 
head, and after waiting silently awhile he said 
aloud, “ My Father! ” as if he were testing a call. 
He repeated it again, more eagerly, and a third time, 
with a ring in his voice, “ My Father! ” 

That was all. He did not know, how to pray. 
His soul had grown no farther than just to 
know how to call to his Father, but it was enough. 
A kind of peace seemed to settle down upon him, a 
feeling that he had been heard. 

Once more there came to him a knowledge that 
he was acting out of all reason, and he wondered 
whether he could be losing his mind. He, a red- 
haired, hard-featured orange-grower, who but yes¬ 
terday had carried curses so easily upon his lips, 
and might again to-morrow, to be allowing his 



94 The Story of a Whim 

emotions thus to carry him away ! It was simply 
childish! 

But so deep was the feeling that a Friend was 
near, that he might really say, “ My Father,” if 
only to the dark, that he determined to keep up 
the hallucination, if indeed hallucination it was, as 
long as it would last. And so he fell asleep again 
to dream of benediction. 

And on the morrow a sudden desire took him 
to mail that letter he had written the night before. 
And what harm, since he would never see the girl, 
and since she thought him a poor, forlorn creature 
— half daft this letter might prove him; but even 
so she might write him again, which result he found 
he wanted very much when he came to think about 
it; and so without giving himself a chance to 
repent by rereading it he drove the limping pony to 
town and mailed it. 

Now, as it came on toward the middle of the 
week, a conviction suddenly seized Superintendent 
Christie Bailey that another Sunday was about to 
dawn and another time of trial would perhaps be 
his. He had virtually bound himself to that Sun¬ 
day school by the mailing of that foolish letter. He 
could have run away if it had not been for that, 
and those girls up North would never have bothered 



“My Father I ” 


95 


their heads any more about their old Sunday school. 
What if Mortimer should bring the fellows over 
from the lake? What if! Oh, horror! His blood 
froze in his veins. 



CHAPTER VII. 


I LOVE YOU 

After his supper that night he doggedly seized 
the lesson leaf, and began to study. He read the 
whole thing through, hints and suggestions and 
elucidations and illustrations and all, and then began 
over again. 

At last it struck him that the hints for the infant 
class would about suit his needs, and without 
further ado he set himself to master them. Before 
long he was interested as a child in his plans, and 
the next evening was spent in cutting out paper 
crosses as suggested in the lesson, one for every 
scholar he expected to be present, and lettering them 
with the golden text. 

He spent another evening still in making an 
elaborate picture on the reverse side of the black¬ 
board, to be used at the close of his lesson after 
he had led up to it by more simple work on the 
other side. 


96 


“ I Love You ” 


97 


He even went so far as to take the hymn-book and 
select the hymns, and to write out a regular pro¬ 
gramme. No one should catch him napping this 
time. Neither should the prayer be forgotten. Uncle 
Moses would be there, and they could trust him to 
pray. 

Christie was a little anxious about his music, 
for upon that he depended principally for success. 
He felt surprised over himself that he so much 
wished to succeed, when a week ago he had not 
cared. What would he do, though, if Mortimer 
did not turn up, or, worse still, if he had planned 
more mischief? 

But the three friends appeared promptly on the 
hour, gravity on their faces and helpfulness in the 
very atmosphere that surrounded them. They had 
no more practical jokes to play. They had recog¬ 
nized that for some hidden reason Christie meant 
to play this thing out in earnest, and their liking 
and respect for him were such that they wanted 
to assist in the same spirit. 

They liked him none the less for his prompt 
handling of the case of liquors. They carried a 
code of honor in that colony that respected moral 
courage when they saw it. Besides, everybody liked 
Christie. 

They listened gravely to Christie’s lesson, even 



9 8 


The Story of a Whim 


with interest. They took their little paper crosses, 
and studied them curiously, and folded them away 
in their breast pockets, — Armstrong had passed 
them about, being careful to reserve three for him¬ 
self, Mortimer, and Rushforth, — and they sang 
with a right good will. 

And, when the time came to leave, they shook 
hands with Christie like the rest, and without the 
least mocking in their voices said they had* had a 
pleasant time and they would come again. Then 
each man took up a box and a board, and stowed 
them away as he passed out. 

And thus was Christie set up above the rest to a 
position of honor and respect. This work that he 
had taken up — that they had partly forced him to 
take up — separated him from them somewhat, and 
perhaps it was this fact that Christie had to thank 
afterward for his freedom from temptation during 
those first few weeks of the young man’s acquaint¬ 
ance with his heavenly Father. 

For how would it have been possible for him to 
grow into the life of Christ if he had been con¬ 
stantly meeting and drinking liquor with these boon 
companions ? 

The new life could not have grown with the old. 

Christie’s action that first Sunday afternoon had 
made a difference between him and the rest. They 



“ I Love You ” 


99 


could but recognize it, and they admired it in him; 
therefore they set him up. What was there for 
Christie but to try to act up to his position? 

Before the end of another week there arrived 
from the North a package of books and papers and 
Sunday-school cards and helps such as would have 
delighted the heart of the most advanced Sunday- 
school teacher of the day. What those girls could 
not think of, the head of the large religious book¬ 
store to which they had gone thought of for them, 
and Christie had food for thought and action during 
many a long, lonely evening. 

And always these evenings ended in his kneeling 
in the dark, where he fancied the light of Christ’s 
halo in the picture could send its glow upon him, and 
saying aloud in a clear voice, “ My Father,” while 
outside in the summer-winter night was only the 
wailing of the tall pines as they waved weird fingers 
dripping with gray moss, or the plaintive call of the 
tit-wil-low, through the night. 

There had come with the package, too, a letter 
for Christie. He put it in his breast pocket with 
glad anticipation, and hustled that pony home at a 
most unmerciful trot; at least, so thought the pony. 

When Hazel Winship read that second letter 
aloud to the other girls, she did not read the whole 
of it. The pages which contained the sketches she 



IOO 


The Story of a Whim 


passed around freely, and they read and laughed 
over the Sunday school, and talked enthusiastically 
of its future; but the pages which told of the 
Sabbath-evening vision and of Christie’s feeling 
toward the picture Hazel kept to herself. It seemed 
somehow a desecration to let it be known. 

She could not have told in so many words just 
why she skipped it in reading the letter to the girls 
who were equally interested in the stranger. Perhaps 
it was that they never seemed to understand when 
she spoke of spiritual things to them. They always 
looked at her with loving, but half-amused leniency, 
or else averted their gaze as if they were embar¬ 
rassed when she spoke of the innermost precious 
things of her Christian experience. Once when she 
was talking eagerly of how near Christ had seemed 
to her that morning when she was praying, Victoria 
frankly told her she didn’t know what she meant; 
and Esther said quite crossly that she ought not to 
let her mind wander off that way into imaginings, 
that it wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t reverent. 

Remembering all these things, she passed over the 
account of Christie’s experience, feeling instinctively 
that her new friend would rather not have it shown. 
It seemed so sacred to her and so wonderful. Her 
heart went out to the other soul seeking its Father. 

When they were all gone out of her room that 



“ I Love You ” 


IOI 


night, she locked her door and knelt a long time 
praying, praying for the soul of Christie Bailey. 
Something in the longing of that letter from the 
South had reproached her, that she, with all her helps 
to enlightenment, was not appreciating to its full 
the love and care of her heavenly Father. And so 
Christie unknowingly helped Hazel Winship nearer 
to her Master. 

And then Hazel wrote the letter, in spite of a 
Greek thesis, the thesis in fact, that was waiting 
and calling to her with urgency — the letter that 
Christie carried home in his breast pocket. 

He did not wait to eat his supper, though he gave 
the pony his. Indeed, it was not a very attractive 
function at its best. 

Christie was really handsome that night, with the 
lamplight bringing out all the copper tints and garnet 
shadows in his hair. His finely cut lips curled in 
a pleasant smile of anticipation. He had not realized 
before how much, how very much, he wanted to 
hear from Hazel Winship again. 

His heart was thumping like a girl’s as he tore 
open the delicately perfumed envelope and took out 
the many closely written pages of the letter; and 
his heart rejoiced that it was long and closely 
written. He resolved to read it slowly and make it 
last a good while. 



102 


The Story of a Whim 

“ My dear, dear Christie,” it began, “ your second 
letter has come, and first I want to tell you that I 
love you.” 

Christie gasped, and dropped the sheets upon the 
table, his arms and face upon them. His heart 
was throbbing painfully, and his breath felt like 
great sobs. 

When he raised his eyes by and by, as he was 
growing to have a habit of doing, to the picture, 
they were full of tears; and they fell and blurred 
the delicate writing of the pages on the table, and 
the Christ knew and pitied him, and seemed almost 
to smile. 

No one had ever told Christie Bailey of loving 
him, not since his mother those long years ago had 
held him to her breast and whispered to God to 
make her little Chris a good man. 

He had grown up without expecting love. He 
scarcely thought he knew the meaning of the word. 
He scorned it in the only sense he ever heard it 
spoken of. And now, in all his loneliness, when 
he had almost ceased to care what the world gave 
him, to have this free, sweet love of a pure-hearted 
girl rushed upon him without stint and without cause 
overpowered him. 

Of course he knew it was not his, this love she 
gave so freely and so frankly. It was meant for 




“ I Love You ” 


103 


a person who never existed, a nice, homely old 
maid, whose throne in Hazel’s imagination had come 
to be located in his cabin for some strange, wonder¬ 
ful reason; but yet it was his, too, his to enjoy, for 
it certainly belonged to no one else. He was robbing 
no one else to let his hungry heart be filled a little 
while with the fulness of it. 

One resolve he made instantly, without hesita¬ 
tion, and that was that he would be worthy of such 
love if so be it in him lay to be. He would cherish 
it as a tender flower that had been meant for another, 
but had fallen instead into his rough keeping; and 
no thought or word or action of his should ever 
stain it. 

Then with true knighthood in his heart to help 
him onward he raised his head and read on, a 
great joy upon him which almost ingulfed him. 

“ And I believe you love me a little, too.” 

Christie caught his breath again. He saw that 
it was true, although he had not known it before. 

“ Shall I tell you why I think so ? Because you 
have written me this little piece out of your heart- 
life, this story of your vision of Jesus Christ, for 
I believe it was such. 

“ I have not read that part of your letter to 
the other girls. I could not. It seemed sacred; 
and, while I know they would have sympathized 



io4 


The Story of a Whim 


and understood, yet I felt perhaps you wrote it just 
to me, and I would keep it sacred for you. 

“ And so I am sending you this little letter just, 
to speak of that to you. I shall write in my other 
letter with the rest of the girls, all about the Sunday 
school, how glad we are, and all about the pictures 
how fine they are; and you will understand. But 
this letter is all about your own self. 

“ I have stopped most urgent work upon my 
thesis to write this, too; so you may know how 
important I consider you, Christie. I could not 
sleep last night, for praying about you.” 

It was a wonderful revelation to Christie, that 
story of the longing of another soul that his might 
be saved. To the lonely young fellow, grown used 
as he was to thinking that not another one in all 
the world cared for him, it seemed almost unbeliev¬ 
able. 

He forgot for the time that she considered him 
another girl like herself. He forgot everything save 
her pleading that he would give himself to Jesus. 
She wrote of Jesus Christ as one would write of a 
much-loved friend, met often face to face, consulted 
about everything in life, and trusted beyond all 
others. 

A few weeks ago this would indeed have been 
wonderful to the young man, but that it could have 



“ I Love You ” 


105 


any relation to himself — impossible! Now, with 
the remembrance of his dream, and the joy his heart 
had felt from the presence of a picture in his room, 
it seemed it might be true that Christ would love 
even him, and with so great a love. 

The pleading took hold upon him. Jesus was 
real to this one girl; He might become real to him. 

The thought of that girlish figure kneeling beside 
her bed in the solemn night hours praying for him 
was almost more than he could bear. It filled him 
with awe and a great joy. He drew his breath in 
sobs, and did not try to keep the tears from flowing. 
It seemed that the fountains of the years were broken 
up in him, and he was weeping out his cry for the 
lonely, unloved childhood he had lost, and the bitter 
years of mistakes that had followed. 

It appeared that the Bible had a great part to 
play in this new life put before him. Verses which 
he recognized as from the Scripture abounded in 
the letter, which he did not remember ever to have 
heard before, but which came to him with a rich 
sweetness as if spoken just for him. 

Did the Bible contain all that? And why had 
he not known it before? He had gone to other 
books for respite from his loneliness. Why had he 
never known that here was deeper comfort than 
all else could give ? ' 



io6 The Story of a Whim 

“Think of it, Christie, 5 ’ the letter said; “Jesus 
Christ would have come to this earth and lived and 
died to save you if you had been the only one out of 
the whole earth that was going to accept Him . 55 

He turned his longing eyes to the picture. Was 
that true? And the eyes seemed to answer, “ Yes, 
Christie, I would.” 

Before he turned out his light that night he took 
the Bible from the organ, and, opening at random, 
read, “ For I have loved thee with an everlasting 
love; therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn 
thee.” And a light of belief overspread his face. 
He could not sleep for many hours, for thinking of 
it all. 

There was no question in his mind of whether he 
would or not. He felt he was the Lord’s in spite 
of everything else. The loving-kindness that had 
drawn him had been too great for any human resist¬ 
ance. 

Then with the realization of the loving-kindness 
had come self-reproach for his so long denial and 
worse than indifference. He did not understand 
the meaning of repentance and faith, but he was 
learning them in his life. 

Christie was never the same after that night. 
Something had changed in him. It may have been 
growing all those days since the things first came, 



“ I Love You” 


107 


but that letter from Hazel Winship marked a decided 
epoch in his life. All his manhood rose to meet 
the sweetness of the girl’s unasked prayer for him. 

It mattered not that she thought not of him as 
a man. She had prayed, and the prayer had reached 
up to heaven and back to him again. 

The only touch of sadness about it was that he 
should never be able to see her and thank her face 
to face for the good she had done to him. He 
thought of her as some far-away angel who had 
stooped to earth for a little while, and in some of 
his reveries dreamed that perhaps in heaven, where 
all things are made right, he should know her. For 
the present it was enough that he had her sweet 
friendship, and her companionship in writing. 

Not for worlds now would he reveal his identity. 
And the thought that this might be wrong did not 
enter his mind. What harm could it possibly do? 
and what infinite good to himself! — and perhaps 
through himself to a few of those little colored 
children. He let this thought come timidly to the 
front. 

This was the beginning of the friendship that 
made life a new thing to Christie Bailey. Long 
letters he wrote, telling the thoughts of his inmost 
heart as he had never told them to any one on earth, 
as he would never have been able to tell them to one 



io8 


The Story of a Whim 


whom he hoped to meet sometime, as he would have 
told them to God. 

And the college student found time amid her 
essays and her fraternities to answer them promptly. 

Her companions wondered why she wasted so 
much valuable time on that poor “ cracker ” girl, as 
they sometimes spoke of Christie, and how she could 
have patience to write so long letters; but their 
curiosity did not go so far as to wonder what she 
found to say; else they might have noticed that less 
and less often did Hazel offer to read aloud her 
letters from the Southland. But they were busy, 
and only occasionally inquired about Christie now, 
or sent a message. 

Hazel herself sometimes wondered why this 
stranger girl had taken so deep a hold upon her; 
but the days went by and the letters came frequently, 
and she never found herself willing to put one by 
unanswered. There was always some question that 
needed answering, some point on which her young 
convert to Jesus Christ needed enlightenment. 

Then, too, she found herself growing nearer to 
Jesus because of this friendship with one who was 
just learning to trust Him in so childlike and earnest 
a way. 

“ Do you know,” she said confidingly to Ruth 
Summers one day, “ I cannot make myself see 



“ I Love You ” 


109 


Christie Bailey as homely ? It doesn’t seem possible 
to me. I think she is mistaken. I know I shall 
find something handsome about her when I see 
her, which I shall some day.” 

And Ruth smiled mockingly. “ O Hazel, Hazel, 
it will be better, then, for you never to see poor 
Christie, I am sure; for you will surely find your 
ideal different from the reality.” 

But Hazel’s eyes grew dreamy, and she shook 
her head. 

“ No, Ruth, I’m sure, sure. A girl couldn’t have 
all the beautiful thoughts Christie has, and not be 
fine in expression. There will be some beauty in her, 
I am sure. Her eyes, now, I know are magnificent. 
I wish she would send me a picture; but she won’t 
have one taken, though I’ve coaxed and coaxed.” 



CHAPTER VIII. 

SAD NEWS FROM THE NORTH 

In his own heart-life Christie was changing day 
by day. The picture of Christ was his constant com¬ 
panion. At first shyly and then openly he grew to 
make a confidant of it. He studied the lines of the 
face, and fitted them to the lines of the life depicted 
in the New Testament, and without his knowing it 
his own face was changing. The lines of reckless¬ 
ness and hardness about his mouth were gone. The 
dulness of discontent was gone from his eyes. They 
could light now from within in a flash with a joy 
that no discouragement could quite quench. 

By common consent Christie’s companions re¬ 
spected his new way of life, and perhaps after the 
first few weeks if he had shown a disposition to go 
back to the old way of doing might have even at¬ 
tempted to keep him to his new course. 

They every one knew that their way was a bad 
way. Each man was glad at heart when Christie 


no 


Sad Nevws from the North 


hi 


made an innovation. They came to the Sunday 
school and helped, controlling their laughter admira¬ 
bly whenever Uncle Moses gave occasion; and they 
listened to Christie’s lessons, which, to say the least, 
were original, with a courteous deference, mingled 
with a kind of pride that one of their number could 
do this. 

They also refrained from urging him to go with 
them on any more revellings. Always he was asked, 
but in a tone that he came to feel meant that they 
did not expect him to accept, and would perhaps 
have been disappointed if he had done so. 

Once, when Christie, unthinkingly, half-assented 
to go on an all-day’s ride with some of them, Morti¬ 
mer put his hand kindly on Christie’s shoulder, and 
said in a tone Christie had never heard him use 
before: “ I wouldn’t, Chris. It might be a bore. ,, 

Christie turned, and looked earnestly into his eyes 
for a minute, and then said, “ Thank you, Mort! ” 

As he stood watching them ride away, a sudden 
instinct made him reach his hand to Mortimer, and 
say, “ Stay with me this time, old fellow ”; but the 
other shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, 
Christie thought, and said as he rode off after the 
others, “ Too late, Chris; it isn’t any use.” 

Christie thought about it a good deal that day 
as he went about his grove without his customary 



112 


The Story of a Whim 


whistle, and at night, before he began his evening’s 
reading and writing, he knelt and breathed his first 
prayer for the soul of another. 

The winter blossomed into spring, and the soft 
wind blew the breath of yellow jessamine and bay 
blossoms from the swamps. Christie’s wire fence 
bloomed out into a mass of Cherokee roses, and 
among the glossy orange-leaves there gleamed 
many a white, starry blossom, earnest of the golden 
fruit to come. 

Christie with throbbing heart and shining eyes 
picked his first orange-blossoms, a goodly handful, 
and, packing them after the most approved methods 
for long journeys, sent them to Hazel Winship. 

Never any oranges, be they numbered by thou¬ 
sands of boxes, could give him the pleasure that 
those first white waxen blossoms gave as he laid his 
face gently among them and breathed a blessing 
on the one to whom they went, before he packed 
them tenderly in their box. 

Christie was deriving daily joy now from Hazel 
Winship’s friendship. Sometimes when he remem¬ 
bered the tender little sentences in her letters his 
heart fairly stood still with longing that she might 
know who he was and yet be ready to say them to 
him. Then he would crush this wish down, and 
grind his heel upon it, and tell his better self that 



Sad News from the North 


n 3 


only on condition of never thinking such a thought 
again would he allow another letter written her, 
another thought sent toward her. 

Then would he remember the joy she had already 
brought into his life, and go smiling about his work, 
singing, 

“He holds the key of all unknown, 

And I am glad.” 

Hazel Winship spent that first summer after her 
graduation, most of it, visiting among her college 
friends at various summer resorts at seaside or on 
mountain-top. But she did not forget to cheer 
Christie’s lonely summer days — more lonely now 
because some of his friends had gone North for a 
while — with bits of letters written from shady 
nooks on porch or lawn, or sitting in a hammock. 

“ Christie, you are my safety-valve,” she wrote 
once. “ I think you take the place with me of a 
diary. Most girls use a diary for that. If I was at 
home with mother, I might use her sometimes; but 
there are a good many things that if I should write 
her she would worry, and there really isn’t any 
need, but I could not make her sure. So you see I 
have to bother you. For instance, there is a young 
man here — ” Christie drew his brows together 
fiercely. This was a new aspect. There were other 



114 The Story of a Whim 

young men, then. Of course — and he drew a deep 
sigh. 

It was during the reading of that letter that 
Christie began to wish there were some way for 
him to make his real self known to Hazel Winship. 
He began to see some reasons why what he had 
done was not just all right. 

But there was a satisfaction in being the safety- 
valve, and there was delight in their trysting-hour 
when they met before the throne of God. Hazel 
had suggested this when she first began to try to 
help Christie Christward; and they had kept it up, 
praying for this one and that one and for the Sunday 
school. 

Once Christie had dared to think what joy it 
would be to kneel beside her and hear her voice 
praying for him. Would he ever hear her voice? 
The thought had almost taken his breath away. 
He had not dared to think of it again. 

The summer deepened into autumn; and the 
oranges, a goodly number for the first crop, green 
disks unseen amid their background of green leaves, 
blushed golden day by day. And then, just as 
Christie was beginning to be hopeful about how 
much he would get for his fruit, there came a sadness 
into his life that shadowed all the sunshine, and 



Sad News from the North 115 

made the price of oranges a very small affair. For 
Hazel Winship fell ill. 

At first it did not seem to be much — a little 
indisposition, a headache and loss of appetite. She 
wrote Christie she did not feel well and could not 
write a long letter. 

Then there came a silence of unusual length, fol¬ 
lowed by a letter from Ruth Summers, at whose 
summer home Hazel had been staying when taken 
ill. It was brief and hurried, and carried with it 
a hint of anxiety, which, as the days of silence grew 
into weeks, made Christie’s heart heavy. 

“ Hazel is very ill indeed,” she wrote, “ but she 
has worried so that I promised to write and tell 
you why she had not answered your letter.” 

The poor fellow comforted himself day after day 
with the thought that she had thought of him in 
all her pain and suffering. 

He wrote to Ruth Summers, asking for news of 
his dear friend; but, whether from the anxiety over 
the sick one, or from being busy about other things, 
or it may be from indifference, — he could not tell, 
— there came no answer for weeks. 

During this sad time he ceased to whistle. There 
grew a sadness in his eyes that told of hidden pain, 
and his cheery ways with the Sunday school were 
gone. 



ii6 


The Story of a Whim 


One day when his heart had been particularly 
heavy, and he had found the Sabbath-school lesson 
almost an impossibility, the little dusky girl who 
had spoken to him before touched him gently on 
the arm. 

Christie instinctively drew back as if some lower 
order of being had presumed to touch him. He had 
lived among these people for a long time without 
ever taking cognizance of their existence any more 
than if they had been the bugs and worms that 
crawled under his feet. To have one of them 
approach him in a familiar way startled him. Of 
course he knew them apart, that is, he knew old Uncle 
Moses and Aunt Tildy, and he was familiar with 
the faces of the many little grandchildren that 
swarmed around the nearby shanty they all called 
home, but this child with the large faithful eyes, and 
the look of homely interest in her face had hereto¬ 
fore been but one of the swarm. Now as he looked 
down astonished, his heart was strangely stirred. 

“ Mistah Christie feel bad? Is somebody you 
• all love, sick ? ” 

Almost the tears filled Christie’s eyes as he 
looked at her in surprise, and nodded his head. 

“ Youm ’fraid they die?” 

Again Christie nodded. He could not speak; 
^something was choking him. The sympathetic voice 



Sad News from the North 


ii 7 


of the little girl was breaking down his self-con¬ 
trol. 

The little black fingers touched his hand sorrow¬ 
fully, and there was in her eyes a longing to comfort, 
as she lifted them first to her beloved superintend¬ 
ent’s face and then to the picture above them. 

“ But you all’s fathah’s not dead,” she pleaded, 
shyly. 

Christie caught her meaning in a flash, and mar¬ 
velled afterwards that a child should have gone so 
directly to the point, where he, so many years beyond 
her, had missed it. He had not learned yet how 
God has revealed the wise things of this world unto 
the babes. 

“ No, Sylvie,” he said quickly, grasping the timid 
little fingers; “ my Father is not dead. I will take 
my trouble to Him. Thank you.” 

The smile that broke over the little girl’s face 
as she said good-night was the first ray of the light 
that began to shine over Christie Bailey’s soul as he 
realized that God was not dead and God was his 
Father. 

When they were all gone, he locked his doors, 
and knelt before his heavenly Father, pouring out 
his anguish, praying for his friend and for himself, 
yielding up his will, and feeling the return of peace, 
and surety that God doeth all things well. Again 



118 The Story of a Whim 

as he slept he saw the vision of the Christ bending 
over him in benediction, and when he woke he found 
himself singing softly, 

“ He holds the key to all unknown, 

And I am glad.” 

He wondered whether it was just a happening — 
and then knew that it was not — that Ruth Sum¬ 
mers’s second letter reached him that day, saying 
that Hazel was at last past all danger and had spoken 
about Christie Bailey, and so she, Ruth, had hastened 
to send the message on, hoping the far-away friend 
would forgive her for the delay in answering. 

After that Christie believed with his whole soul 
in prayer. 

He set himself the pleasant task of writing to 
Hazel all he had felt and experienced during her 
illness and long silence. When she grew well 
enough to write him again, he might send it. He 
was not sure. 

One paragraph he allowed himself, in which to 
pour out the pent-up feelings of his heart. But 
even in this he weighed every word. He began to 
long to be perfectly true before her, and to wish 
there were a way to tell her all the truth about 
himself without losing her friendship. This was the 
paragraph. 



Sad News from the North 119 

“ I did not know until you were silent how much 
of my life was bound up with yours. I can never 
tell you how much I love you, but I can tell God 
about it, the God you taught me to love.” 

The very next day there came a note from Ruth 
Summers saying that Hazel was longing to hear 
from Florida again and that she was now permitted 
to read her own letters. Then with joy he took 
his letter to the office, and not long after received 
a little note in Hazel’s own familiar hand, closing 
with the words: “ Wk> knows ? perhaps you will 
be able to tell me all about it some day, after all.’ , 
And Christie, when he read it, held his hand on 
his heart to still the tumult of pain and joy. 

“■ Have you written to Christie Bailey that you 
are coming? ” said Victoria Landis, turning her eyes 
from the window of the drawing-room car, where 
she was studying the changing landscape, so new and 
strange to her Northern eyes. 

“ No,” said Hazel, leaning back among her pil¬ 
lows; “ I thought it would be more fun to surprise 
her. Besides, I want to see things just exactly as 
they are, as she has described them to me, you know. 
I don’t want her to go and get fussed up to meet me. 
She wouldn’t be natural at all if she did. I’m positive 
she’s shy, and I must take her unawares. After I 



120 


The Story of a Whim 


have put my arms around her neck in regular girl 
fashion and kissed her she will realize that it is 
just I, the one she has written to for a year, and 
everything will be all right; but if she has a long 
time to think about it, and conjure up all sorts of 
nonsense about her dress and mine, and the differ^ 
ences in our stations, she wouldn’t be at all the 
same Christie. I love her just as she is, and that’s 
the way I mean to see her first.” 

“ I am afraid, Hazel, you’ll be dreadfully disap¬ 
pointed,” said Ruth Summers. “ Things on paper 
are never exactly like the real things. Now look 
out that window. Is this the land of flowers? 
Look at all that blackened ground where it’s been 
burnt over, and see those ridiculous green tufts 
sticking up every little way, varied by a stiff green 
palm-leaf, as if children had stuck crazy old fans 
in a play garden. You know the real is never as 
good as the ideal, Hazel.” 

“ It’s a great deal better,” said Hazel positively. 
“ Those green tufts, as you call them, are young 
pines. Some day they’ll be magnificent. Those 
little fans are miniature palms. That’s the way they 
grow down here. Christie has told me all about it. 
It looks exactly to a dot as I expected, and I’m sure 
Christie will be even better.” 

The two travelling companions looked lovingly 



Sad News from the North 


121 


at her, and remembered how near they had come to 
losing their friend only a little while before, and 
said no more to dampen her high spirits. This trip 
was for Hazel, to bring back the roses to her cheeks; 
and father, mother, brother, and friends were deter¬ 
mined to do all they could to make it a success. 

It was the morning after they arrived at the 
hotel that Hazel asked to be taken at once to see 
Christie. She wanted to go alone; but, as that was 
not to be thought of in her convalescent state, she 
consented to take Ruth and Victoria with her. 

“ You’ll go out in the orange-grove and visit with 
the chickens while I have a little heart-to-heart talk 
with Christie, won’t you, you dears ? 91 she said, as 
she gracefully gave up her idea of going alone. 

The old man who drove the carriage that took 
them there was exceedingly talkative. Yes, he knew 
Christie Bailey; most everybody did. They im¬ 
parted to him the fact that this visit was to be a 
surprise party, and arranged with him to leave them 
for an hour while he went on another errand and 
returned for them. These matters planned, they 
settled down to gleeful talk. 

Victoria Landis on the front seat with the inter¬ 
ested driver — who felt exceedingly curious about 
this party of pretty girls going to visit Christie 
Bailey thus secretly — began to question him. 



122 


The Story of a Whim 

“Is Christie Bailey a very large person?” she 
asked mischievously. “ Is she as large as I am ? 
You see we have never seen her.” 

The old man looked at her quizzically. “ Never 
seen her? Aw! O” he said dryly. “Wall, yas, 
fer a girl, I should say she was ruther big. Yas, I 
should say she was fully as big as you be — if not 
bigger.” 

“Has she very red hair?” went on Victoria. 
There was purpose in her mischief. She did not 
want Hazel to be too much disappointed. 

“ Ruther,” responded the driver. Then he 
chuckled unduly, it seemed to Hazel, and added, 
“ Ruther red.” 

“ Isn’t she at all pretty ? ” asked Ruth Summers, 
leaning forward with a troubled air, as if to snatch 
one ray of hope. 

“ Purty! ” chuckled the driver. “ Wall, no, I 
shouldn’t eggzactly call her purty. She’s got nice 
eyes,” he added, as an afterthought. 

“There!” said Hazel, sitting up triumphantly. 
“ I knew her eyes were magnificent. Now please 
don’t say any more.” 

The driver turned his twinkly little eyes around, 
and stared at Hazel, and then clucked the horse 
over the deep sandy road. 

He set them down at Christie’s gateway, telling 



Sad News from the North 


123 


them to knock at the cabin door, and they would 
be sure to be answered by the owner, and he would 
return within the hour. Then he drove his horse 
reluctantly away, turning his head back as far as 
he could see, hoping Christie would come to the 
door. He would like to see what happened. For 
half a mile down the road he laughed to the black¬ 
jacks, and occasionally ejaculated: “ No, she ain’t 
just to say purty! But she’s good. I might ’a’ told 
’em she was good.” 

This was the driver’s tribute to Christie. 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE DISCOVERY 

Hazel walked up to the door of the cabin in a 
dream of anticipation realized. Here were the peri¬ 
winkles nodding their bright eyes along the border 
of the path, and there the chickens stood on one 
kid foot of yellow, as Christie had described. 

She could almost have found the way here alone, 
from the letters she had received. She drank in 
the air, and felt it give new life to her, and thought 
of the pleasant hours she would spend with Christie 
during the weeks that were to follow, and of the 
secret plan she had of taking Qiristie back home 
with her for the winter. 

They knocked at the door, which was open, and, 
stepping in, stood surrounded by the familiar things; 
and all three felt the delight of giving these few 
simple gifts, which had been so little to them when 
they were given. 

Then a merry whistle sounded from the back 


24 


The Discovery 


125 


yard and heavy steps on the board path at the 
back door, and Christie walked in from the barn 
with the frying-pan in one hand and a dish-pan 
in the other. He had been out to scrape some scraps 
from his table to the chickens in the yard. 

The blood came quickly to his cheeks at sight 
of his three elegant visitors. He put the cooking- 
utensils down on the stove with a thud, and drew off 
his old straw hat, revealing his garnet-tinted hair 
in all its glory against the sunshine of a Florida 
sky in the doorway behind him. 

“ Is Christie Bailey at home?” questioned Vic¬ 
toria Landis, who seemed the natural spokesman 
for the three. 

" / am Christie Bailey,” said the young man 
gravely, looking from one to another questioningly. 
“ Won’t you sit down? ” 

There was a moment’s pause before the tension 
broke, and then a pained, sweet voice, the voice 
of Christie’s dreams, spoke forth. 

“ But Christie Bailey is a young woman.” 

Christie looked at Hazel, and knew his hour had 
come. 

“ No, I am Christie Bailey,” he said once more, 
his great, honest eyes pleading for forgiveness. 

“ Do you really mean it? ” said Victoria, amuse¬ 
ment growing in her eyes as she noted his every 



126 


The Story of a Whim 


fine point, noted the broad shoulders and the way 
he had of carrying his head up, noted the flash of 
his eyes, the waves of auburn hair rolling back from 
his forehead, the broad, well-set shoulders, the way 
he held his hands and the easy grace with which he 
stood in the presence of three invading strange ladies, 
despite the rough garb and the ridiculous frying pan 
which he carried. This was no backs woodsman. This 
man had character and spirit. Sentences from his 
letters flocked to her memory to help out the impres¬ 
sion. It was really too good to be true, this romance 
into which they had stepped. The man was perfect 
for his part, the whole scene so dramatically staged. 
One read of things like this, but to think it should 
have happened to them! It was rare! But what 
would Hazel say? Hazel, who took life literally and 
intensely. She turned anxiously toward her friend 
as she stood with white face, and one slender hand 
clutching at the table for support. If only Hazel 
would not take everything so hard! 

“Then you’re not a girl, after all?” said Ruth 
Summers suddenly waking up in a frightened tone, 
and looking anxiously from Christie to Hazel. 

But Christie was looking straight at Hazel, all 
his soul come to judgment before her, his mouth 
closed, unable to plead his own cause. 

“Evidently not!” remarked Victoria dryly. 



The Discovery 


127 


“ What extremely self-evident facts you find to re¬ 
mark upon, Ruth! ” 

But the others did not hear them. They were 
facing one another, these two who had held com¬ 
munion of soul for so many months, and who, now 
that they were face to face, were suddenly cut 
asunder by an insurmountable wall of a composition 
known as truth. 

Hazel’s dark eyes burned wide and deep from her 
white face. The enthusiasm that could make her 
love an unseen, unlovely woman, could also glow 
with the extreme of scorn for one whom she despised. 
The firm little mouth he had admired was set and 
stern. Her lips were pallid as her cheeks, while the 
light of truth and righteousness fairly scintillated 
from her countenance. 

“ Then you have been deceiving me all this time! ” 
Her voice was high and clear, tempered by her late 
illness, and keen with pain. Her whole alert, grace¬ 
ful body expressed the utmost scorn. She would 
have done for a model of the figure of Retribu¬ 
tion. 

And yet in that awful minute, as Christie met 
her eye for eye, and saw the judgment of “ Guilty ” 
pronounced upon him, and could but acknowledge 
it just, and saw before him the blankness of the 
punishment that was to be his, he had time to think 



128 


The Story of a Whim 


with a thrill of delight that Hazel was all and more 
than he had dreamed of her as being. He had time 
to be glad that she was as she was. He would not 
have her changed one whit, retribution and all. 

It was all over in a minute; the sentence gone 
forth, the girl turned and marched with stately step 
out of the door down the white path to the road. 
But the little ripples of air she swept by in passing 
rolled back upon the culprit a knowledge of her 
disappointment, chagrin, and humiliation. 

Christie bowed his head in acceptance of his sen¬ 
tence, and looked at his other two visitors, his eyes 
beseeching that they would go and leave him to 
endure what had come upon him. Ruth was cling¬ 
ing to Victoria’s arm, frightened. She had seen 
the delicate white of Hazel’s cheek as she went out 
the door. But Victoria’s eyes were dancing with 
fun. 

“ Why didn’t you say something ? ” she demanded 
of Christie. “ Go out and stop her before she gets 
away! See, she is out there by the hedge. You 
can make it all right with her.” There was pity 
in her voice. She liked the honest eyes and fine 
bearing of the young man. Besides, she loved fun, 
and did not like to see this most enticing situation 
spoiled at the climax. 

A light of hope sprang into Christie’s eyes as 



The Discovery 


129 


he turned to follow her suggestion. It did not take 
him long to overtake Hazel's slow step in the deep, 
sandy way. 

“ I must tell you how sorry I am — ” he began 
before he had quite caught up to her. 

But she turned and faced him with her hand 
lifted in protest. 

“ If you are sorry, then please do not say another 
word. I will forgive you, of course, because I 
am a Christian; but don't ever speak to me again. 
I hate deceit! " Then she turned and sped down 
the road like a flash, in spite of her weakness. 

And Christie stood in the road where she left 
him, his head bared to the winter’s sunshine, look¬ 
ing as if he had been struck in the face by a loved 
hand, his whole strong body trembling. 

Victoria meanwhile was taking in the situation. 
She espied Hazel’s photograph framed in a delicate 
tracery of Florida moss. Then she frowned. Hazel 
would never permit that to stay here now, and her 
instinct told her that it would be missed by its 
present owner, and that he had the kind of honor 
that would not keep it if it were demanded. 

“ This must not be in sight when Hazel comes 
back,” she whispered softly, disengaging herself 
from Ruth’s clinging hand, and going vigorously 
to work. She took down the photograph, slipped 



130 


The Story of a Whim 


off the moss, and, looking about for a place of 
concealment, hid it in the breast pocket of an old 
coat lying on a chair near by. Then, going to the 
door, she watched for developments; but, as she 
perceived that Hazel had fled and Christie was 
dazed, she made up her mind that she was needed 
elsewhere, and, calling Ruth, hurried down the road. 

“If you miss anything, look in your coat pocket 
for it,” she said as she passed Christie in the road. 
But Christie was too much overcome to take in what 
she meant. 

He went back to his cabin. The light of the 
world seemed crushed out for him. Even the organ 
and the couch and the various pretty touches that 
had entered his home through these Northern 
friends of a year ago seemed suddenly to have with¬ 
drawn themselves from him, as if they had dis¬ 
covered the mistake in his identity, and were frown¬ 
ing their disapproval and letting him know that he 
was holding property under false pretences. Only 
the loving eyes of the pictured Christ looked tenderly 
at him, and with a leap of his heart Christie realized 
that Hazel had given him one thing that she could 
never take away. 

With something almost like a sob he threw him¬ 
self on his knees before the picture and cried out 
in anguish, “ My Father! ” 



The Discovery 


Hi 

Christie did not get supper that night. He forgot 
that there was any need for anything but comfort 
and forgiveness in the world. He knelt there, pray¬ 
ing, sometimes, but most of the time just letting 
his heart lie bleeding and open before his Father’s 
eyes. 

The night came on, and still he knelt. 

By and by there came a kind of comfort in re¬ 
membering the little black girl’s words, “ You all’s 
Fathah’s not dead.” He was not cut off from his 
Father. Something like peace settled upon him. 
a resignation and a strength to bear. 

To think the situation over clearly and see whether 
there was aught he could do was beyond him. His 
rebuke had come. He could not justify himself. 
He had done wrong, though without intention. Be¬ 
sides, it was too late to do anything now. He had 
been turned out of Eden. The angel with the flam¬ 
ing sword had bidden him no more think to enter. 
He must go forth and labor, but God was not dead. 

The days after that passed slowly and dully. 
Christie hardly took account of time. He was like 
one laden with a heavy burden and made to draw 
it on a long road. He had started, and was plodding 
his best every day, knowing that there would be an 
end sometime; but it was to be hard and long. 

Gradually he came out of the daze that Hazel’s 



132 


The Story of a Whim 


words had put upon him. Gradually he felt himself 
forgiven by God for his deceit. But he would not 
discuss even with his own heart the possibility of 
forgiveness from Hazel. She was right, of course. 
He had known from the first that her friendship 
did not belong to him. He would keep the memory 
of it safe; and by and by, when he could bear to 
think it over, it would be a precious treasure. At 
least, he could prove himself worthy of the year of 
her friendship he had enjoyed. 

But, thinking his sad thoughts and going about 
the hardest work he could find, he avoided the public 
road as much as possible, taking to the little by-paths 
when he went out from his own grove. And thus 
one morning, emerging from a tangle of hummock 
land where the live-oaks arched high above him, 
and the wild grape and jessamine snarled themselves 
from magnolia to bay-tree in exquisite patterns, and 
rare orchids defied the world of fashion to find their 
hidden lofty homes, Christie heard voices near and 
the soft footfalls of well-shod horses on the rich, 
rooty earth of the bridle-path. 

He stepped to one side to let the riders pass, for 
the way was narrow. Just where a ray of sunlight 
came through a clearing he stood, and the light 
fell all about him, on his bared head, for he held 
his hat in his hand, making his head look like one 



The Discovery 


133 


from a painting of an old master, all the copper 
tints shining above the clear depths of his eyes. 

He knew who was coming. It was for this he 
had removed his hat. His forehead shone white 
in the shadowed road, where the hat had kept off 
the sunburn; and about his face had come a sadness 
and a dignity that glorified his plainness. 

Hazel rode the forward horse. She looked weary, 
and the flush in her cheeks was not altogether one 
of health. She was controlling herself wonderfully, 
but her strength was not what they had hoped it 
would be when they brought her to the Southland. 
The long walk she had taken under pressure of 
excitement had almost worn her out, and she had 
been unable to go out since, until this afternoon, 
when with the sudden wilfulness of the convalescent 
she had insisted upon a horseback ride. She had 
gone much further than her two faithful friends 
had thought wise, and then suddenly turned toward 
home, too weary to ride rapidly. 

And now she came, at this quick turn, upon 
Christie standing, sun-glorified, his head inclined 
in deference, his eyes pleading, his whole bearing 
one of reverence. 

She looked at him, and started, and knew him. 
That was plain. Then, her face a deadly white, 
her eyes straight ahead, she rode by magnificently, 



134 The Story of a Whim 

a steady, unknowing gaze that cut him like a knife 
just glinting by from her in passing. 

He bowed his head, acknowledging her right to 
do thus with him; but all the blood in his body 
surged into his face, and then, receding, left him as 
white as the girl who had just passed by him. 

Victoria and Ruth, behind, saw and grieved. 
They bowed graciously to him as if to try to make 
up for Hazel's act, but he scarcely seemed to see 
them, for he was gazing down the narrow shadowed 
way after the straight little figure sitting her horse 
so resolutely and riding now so fast. 

“ I did not know you could be so cruel, Hazel,” 
said Victoria, riding forward beside her. “ That 
fellow was just magnificent, and you have stabbed 
him to the heart.” 

But Hazel had stopped her horse, dropped her 
bridle, and was slipping white and limp from her 
saddle to the ground. She had not heard. 

It was Sunday morning before they had time to 
think or talk more about it. Hazel had made them 
very anxious. But Sunday morning she felt a little 
better, and they were able to slip into her darkened 
room, one at a time, and say a few words to her. 

“ Something must be done,” said Victoria de¬ 
cidedly, scowling out the window at the ripples of 
the blue lake below the hotel lawn. “ I cannot un- 



The Discovery 


135 


derstand how this thing has taken so great a hold 
upon her. But I feel sure it is that and nothing 
else that is making her so ill. Don’t you feel so, 
Ruth?” 

“ It is the disappointment,” said Ruth with 
troubled eyes. “ She told me this morning that it 
almost shook her faith in prayer and God to think 
that she should have prayed so for the conversion 
of that girl’s soul — ” 

“ And then found out it was a creature, after 
all, without a soul ? ” laughed Victoria. She never 
could refrain from saying something funny when¬ 
ever she happened to think of it. 

But Ruth went on. 

“ It wasn’t his being a man, at all, instead of 
a girl. She wouldn’t have minded who he or she 
was, if it had not been for the deceit. She says he 
went through the whole thing with her, professed 
to be converted and to be a very earnest Christian, 
and pray for other people, and talked about Christ 
in a wonderful way — and now to think he did it 
all for a joke, it just crushes her. She thinks he 
deceived her of course in those things, too. She 
says a man who would deceive in one thing would 
do so in another. She does not believe now even 
in his Sunday school. And then you know she is 
so enthusiastic that she must have said a lot of lov- 



136 The Story of a Whim 

ing things to him. She is just horrified to think 
she has been carrying on a first-class low-down 
flirtation with an unknown stranger. I think the 
sooner she gets away from this country, the better. 
She ought to forget all about it.” 

“ But she wouldn’t forget. You know Hazel. 
And, besides, the doctor says it might be death 
to her to go back into the cold now in the present 
state of her health. No, Ruth, something else has 
got to be done.” 

“ What can be done, Victoria? You always talk 
as if you could do anything if you only set about 
it.” 

“ I’m not sure but I could,” said Victoria, laugh¬ 
ing. “Wait and see. This thing has got to be 
reduced to plain, commonplace terms, and have all 
the heroics and tragics taken out of it. I may need 
your help; so hold yourself in readiness.” 

After that Victoria went to her room, whence 
she emerged about an hour later, and took her way 
by back halls and by-paths, and finally unseen, down 
the road. 

She was not quite sure of her way, but by re¬ 
tracing her steps occasionally she brought up in 
front of Christie’s cabin just as Aunt Tildy was 
settling her spectacles for the opening hymn. 

She reconnoitred a few minutes till the singing 



The Discovery 


137 


was well under way, and then slipped noiselessly 
through the sand to the side of the house, where 
after a few experiments she discovered a crevice 
through which she could get a limited view of the 
Sunday school 

. A smile of satisfaction hovered about her lips. 
At least, the Sunday school was a fact. So much she 
had learned from her trip. Then she settled herself 
to listen. 

Christie was praying. 

It was the first time Christie’s voice had been 
heard by any one but his Master in prayer. It had 
happened simply enough. Uncle Moses had been sent 
away to the village for a doctor for a sick child, and 
there was no one else to pray. To Christie it was 
not such a trial as it would have been a year ago. 
He had talked with his heavenly Father many times 
since that first cry in the night. But he was not an 
orator. His words were simple. 

“ Jesus Christ, we make so many mistakes, and 
we sin so often. Forgive us. We are not worth 
saving, but we thank Thee that Thou dost love 
us, even though all the world turn against us, 
and though we hate our own selves,” 

Victoria found her eyes filling with tears. If 
Hazel could but hear that prayer! 



CHAPTER X. 


VICTORIA HAS A FINGER IN THE PIE 

During the singing of the next hymn the organist 
came within range of the watcher’s eye, and she 
noted with surprise the young man to whom she had 
been introduced in the hotel parlor a few evenings 
before, Mr. Mortimer. He was a cousin of those 
Mortimers from Boston who roomed next to Ruth. 
He would be at the hotel again. He would be an¬ 
other link in the evidence. For Victoria had set 
out to sift the character of Christie Bailey through 
and through. 

She was chained to the spot by her interest dur¬ 
ing the blackboard lesson, which by shifting her 
position a trifle she could see as well as hear; but 
during the singing of the closing hymn she left in a 
panic, and when the dusky crowd flowed out into 
the road she was well on her way toward home, 
and no one save the yellow-footed chickens that had 
clucked about her feet were the wiser. 

138 


Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie 139 

Victoria did not immediately make known to 
Ruth the events of the afternoon. She had other 
evidence to gather before she presented it before the 
court. She was wise enough to know that her own 
judgment was not always reliable, and that because 
a man had wonderful hair and a figure like a Greek 
statue was no reason why he should be a saint. She 
must know his reputation, his past history, all there 
was to know about him, before she decided to make 
any move in the matter. There were always ways 
of finding out about people. There was the man 
Mortimer, and there, for instance, was the old driver 
who had taken them out to Christie’s house. He 
had seemed to know a lot about him. Dared she 
question him? She decided she dared. To that 
end the very next morning, while the other girls 
were busy writing letters home, she took a small 
boy from the hotel to whom she had promised a 
treat, and hired the old man to take them to the 
famous Pineapple Grove three miles away. When 
she came back she was possessed of much of 
Christie Bailey’s history. It is true there were mat¬ 
ters relating to his way of life which the old man did 
not touch upon, and with all her sagacity, Victoria 
had a one-sided view of Christie, but she was not 
relying merely on one witness. She was hoping 
much from her talk with Mortimer. 



140 The Story of a Whim 

She had hoped he would visit his aunt Sunday 
evening, but if he did he was not in evidence. All 
day Monday she haunted the piazzas and entrances, 
but he did not come until Tuesday evening. 

Victoria in the meanwhile had made herself agree¬ 
able to Mrs. Mortimer, and it did not take her long 
to monopolize the young man when he finally came. 
Indeed, he had been attracted to her from the first. 

They were soon seated comfortably in two large 
piazza chairs, watching the moon rise out of the 
little lake and frame itself in wreaths of long gray 
moss which reached out lace-like fingers and seemed 
to try to snare it; but always it slipped through until 
it sailed high above, serene. So great a moon, and 
so different from a Northern moon! 

Victoria had done justice to the scene with a 
fine supply of adjectives, and then addressed herself 
to her self-set task. 

“ Mr. Mortimer, I wonder if you know a man 
by the name of Bailey down here, Christie Bailey. 
Tell me about him, please. Who is he, and how did 
he come by such a queer name? Is it a diminutive 
of Christopher ? ” 

She settled her fluffy draperies about her in the 
moonlight, and fastened her fine eyes on Mortimer 
interestedly; and he felt he had a pleasant task be- 



Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie 141 

fore him to speak of his friend to this charming 
girl. 

“ Certainly, I know Chris well. He’s one of the 
best fellows in the world. Yes, his name is an 
odd one, a family name, I believe, his mother’s 
family name, I think he told me once. No, no Chris¬ 
topher about it, just plain Christie. But how in the 
world do you happen to know anything about him? 
He told me once he hadn’t a friend left in the 
North.” 

Victoria was prepared for this. 

“ O, I heard some one talking about a colored 
Sunday school he had started, and I am interested 
in Sunday schools myself. Did he come down here 
as a sort of missionary, do you know ? ” 

She asked the question innocently enough, and 
Mortimer waxed earnest in his story. 

“ No, indeed! No missionary about Christie. 
Why, Miss Landis, a year ago Christie was one of 
the toughest fellows in Florida. He could play a 
fine hand at cards, and could drink as much whiskey 
as the next one; and there wasn’t one of us with 
a readier tongue when it was loosened up with plenty 
of drinks — ” 

“ I hope you’re not one of that kind ? ” said 
Victoria, earnestly, looking at the fine, restless eyes 
and handsome profile outlined in the moonlight. 



142 The Story of a Whim 

A shade of sadness crossed his face. No one 
had spoken to him like that in many a long day. 
He turned and looked into her eyes earnestly. 

“ It’s kind of you to care, Miss Landis. Perhaps 
if I had met some one like you a few years ago, 
I should have been a better fellow.” Then he sighed 
and went on: 

“ A strange change came over Christie about a 
year ago. Some one sent him an organ and some 
fixings for his room, supposing he was a girl — 
from his name, I believe. They got hold of his 
name at the freight-station where his goods were 
shipped. They must have been an uncommon sort 
of people to send so much to a stranger. There was 
a fine picture, too, which he keeps on his wall, some 
religious work of a great artist, I think. He treas¬ 
ures it above his orange-grove, I believe. 

“ Well, those things made the most marvellous 
change in that man. You wouldn’t have known 
him. Some of us fellows went to see him soon after 
it happened, and we thought it would be a joke 
to carry out the suggestion that had come with the 
organ that Christie start a Sunday school; so we 
went and invited a lot of darkies from all round, 
and went up there Sunday, and fixed seats all over 
his cabin. 

“ He was as mad as could be, but he couldn’t help 



Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie 143 


himself; so, instead of knocking us all out and send¬ 
ing the audience home, he just pitched in and had 
a Sunday school. He wouldn’t allow any laughing, 
either. We fellows had taken lunch and a case of 
bottles over to make the day a success; and, when 
Armstrong — he’s the second son of an earl — came 
in with the case of liquor, Chris rose in his might. 
Perhaps you don’t know Christie has red hair. Well, 
he has a temper just like it, — and he suddenly rose 
up and fairly blazed at us, eyes and hair and face. 
He looked like a strong avenging angel. I declare, 
he was magnificent. We never knew he had it in 
him before. 

“ Well, from that day forth he took hold of that 
Sunday school, and he changed all his ways. He 
didn’t go to any more ‘ gatherings of the clan,’ as we 
called them. We were all so proud of him we 
wouldn’t have let him if he had tried. 

“ The fellows, some of them, come to the Sunday 
school and help every Sunday — sing, you know, 
and play. We all stand by him. He’s good as gold. 
There’s not many could live alone in a Florida 
orange-grove from one year’s end to another 
and keep themselves from evil the way Christie 
Bailey has. Wouldn’t you like to see the Sunday 
school sometime ? I’ll get Chris to let me bring you 
if you say so.” 



144 The Story of a Whim 

Victoria smilingly said she would enjoy it; and 
then, her interest in Christie Bailey satisfied, she 
turned her attention to the young man before her. 

“ You didn’t answer my question a while ago, 
about yourself.” There was pleading in Victoria’s 
voice, and the young man before her was visibly 
embarrassed. The tones grew more earnest. The 
moon looked down upon the two sitting there quietly. 
The voices of the night were all about them, but they 
heard not. Victoria had found a mission of her 
own while trying to straighten out another’s. 

But the next morning early Victoria laid out her 
campaign. She took Ruth out for a walk, and on 
the way she told her what she intended to do. 

“ And you propose to go to Christie Bailey’s house 
this morning, Victoria, without telling Hazel any¬ 
thing about it? Indeed, Vic, I’m not going to do 
any such thing. What would Mrs. Winship say ? ” 

“ Mrs. Winship will say nothing about it, for 
she will never know anything about it. Besides, 
I don’t care what she says so long as we straighten 
things out for Hazel. Don’t you see Hazel must 
be made to understand that she hasn’t failed, after 
all, that the young man was in earnest, and really 
meant to be a Christian, and that the only thing 
he failed in was in not having courage to speak out 
and tell her she had made a mistake? He didn't in- 



Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie 145 


tend any harm, and after it had gone on for a while 
of course it was all the harder to tell. Now, Ruth, 
there’s no use in your saying you won’t go; for 
I’ve got to have a chaperone, you know; I couldn’t 
go alone, and I shall go with or without you; so 
you may as well come.” 

Reluctantly Ruth went, half fearful of the result 
of this daring girl’s plan, and only half understand¬ 
ing what it was she meant to do. 

Christie came to the door when they knocked. 
He looked eagerly beyond them into the sunshine, 
hunting for another face, but none appeared. Vic¬ 
toria’s eyes were dancing. 

“ She isn’t here,” she said mockingly, rightly 
interpreting his searching gaze. “ So you’d better 
ask us in, or you won’t find out what we came for. 
It is very warm out here in the sun.” 

Christie smiled a sad smile, and asked them 
in. He could not conjecture what they had come 
for. He stood gravely waiting for them to speak. 

“ Now, sir,” said Victoria with decision, “ I want 
you to understand that you have been the cause of 
a great deal of suffering and disappointment.” 

Christie’s face took on at once a look of haggard 
misery as he listened anxiously, not taking his eyes 
from the speaker’s face. Victoria was enjoying her 
task immensely. The young man looked handsomer 



146 


The Story of a Whim 


with that abject expression on. It would do him 
no harm to suffer a little longer. Anyway, he de¬ 
served it, she thought. 

“ You were aware, I think, from a letter Miss 
Summers wrote you, that Miss Winship had been 
very ill indeed before she came down here — that 
she almost died.” 

Here Ruth nodded her head severely. She felt 
like meting out judgment to this false-hearted young 
man. 

“You do not know perhaps that the long walk 
she took from your house last week, after the start¬ 
ling revelation she received here, was enough to 
have killed her in her weak state of health.” 

Christie’s white, anxious face gave Victoria a 
flitting twinge of conscience as she began to realize 
that possibly the young man had suffered enough 
already without anything added by her, but she went 
on with her prepared programme. 

“ You probably do not know that, after she had 
controlled herself the other day when she was riding 
horseback until she had passed you by, she was 
utterly overcome by the humiliation of the sight of 
you, and slipped from her horse in the road, un¬ 
conscious, since which time she has been hovering 
between life and death — ” 

Victoria had carefully weighed that sentence, and 



Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie 147 

decided that, while it might be a trifle overdrawn, 
the circumstances nevertheless justified the state¬ 
ment, for truly they had held grave fears for Hazel’s 
life several times during the last two or three days. 

But a groan escaped the young man’s white lips, 
and Victoria, springing to her feet, realized that 
his punishment had been enough. She went toward 
him involuntarily, a glance of pity in her face. 

“ Don’t look like that! ” she said. “ I think she 
will get well; but I think, as you’re to blame for 
a good deal of the trouble, it is time you offered 
to do something.” 

“ What could I do ? ” said Christie in hoarse 
eagerness. 

“ Well, I think perhaps if you were to explain 
to her how it all happened it might change the situa¬ 
tion somewhat.” 

“ She has forbidden me to say a word,” answered 
Christie in white misery. 

“ O, she has, has she?” said Victoria, surveying 
him with dissatisfaction. “ Well, you ought to have 
done it anyway! You should have insisted! That’s 
a man’s part. She’s got to know the truth somehow, 
and get some of the tragic taken out of this affair, 
or she will suffer for it, that’s all; and there’s no 
one to explain but you. You see it isn’t the pleasant¬ 
est thing to find one has written all sorts of confi- 



148 


The Story of a Whim 


dences to a strange young man. Hazel is blaming 
herself as any common flirt might do if she had a 
conscience. But that, of course, though extremely 
humiliating to her pride, isn't the worst. She feels 
terribly about your having deceived her and pre¬ 
tending that you were a Christian, and she all the 
time praying out her life for you, while you were 
having a good joke out of it. It has hurt her self- 
respect a good deal, but it has hurt her religion 
more." 

Christie raised his head in protest, but Victoria 
went on. 

“ Wait a minute, please. I want to tell you that 
I believe she is mistaken. I don’t believe you were 
playing a part in telling her you had become a 
Christian, were you ? Or that you were making fun 
of her enthusiasm and trying to see how far she 
would go, just for fun?" 

“ I have never written anything in joke to Miss 
Winship. I honor and respect her beyond any one 
else on earth. I have never deceived her in any¬ 
thing except that I did not tell her who I was. 
I thought there was no harm in it when I did it, 
but now I see it was a terrible mistake. And I 
feel that I owe my salvation to Miss Winship. She 
introduced me to Jesus Christ. I am trying to make 
Him my guide." 



Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie 149 

The young man raised his head, and turned his 
eyes with acknowledgment toward the pictured 
Christ as he made his declaration of faith. Victoria 
and Ruth were awed into admiration. 

“ I almost expected to see a halo spring up behind 
his aureole of copper hair,” said Victoria to Ruth 
on the way home. 

Victoria had arranged to send him word when 
he could see Hazel, and the two girls went away, 
leaving Christie in a state of conflicting emotions. 
He could do nothing. He sat and thought and 
thought, going over all his acquaintance with Hazel, 
singling out what he had told her of his own feelings 
toward Christ. And she had thought he had done 
it all in joke! He began to see how hideous had 
been his action in her eyes. Knowing her pure, 
lovely soul as he did through her letters, he felt 
keenly for her. How could he blame her for her 
saintly condemning of him? And it was that day 
that he found in the breast pocket of his old working- 
coat the photograph of Hazel so much prized and 
so sadly missed since the day of her visit. He had 
supposed Victoria took it, but now he recalled her 
words about it as she ran after Hazel; and, smiling 
into the sweet, girlish face, he wondered whether 
she would ever forgive him. 

The next day there came a note from Victoria, 



I S° 


The Story of a Whim 


saying he might call at seven o’clock on Saturday 
evening, and Hazel would likely be able to see him 
a few minutes. A postscript in the writer’s original 
style added: “ And I hope you’ll have sense enough 
to know what to say! If you don’t, I’m sure I can’t 
do anything more for you.” 

And Christie echoed the cry too deeply to be able 
to smile over it. 

Victoria had laid her plans carefully. She ar¬ 
ranged to spend more time with Hazel than she had 
been doing, pleading a headache as an excuse from 
going out for a ride in the hot sun, and sending Mrs. 
Winship in her place more than once. She found 
that Hazel had no intention of opening her heart 
to her; so she determined to make a move herself. 

Hazel had been very quiet for a long time. Vic¬ 
toria thought she was asleep until at last she noticed 
a little quiver of her lip and the tiniest glisten of a 
tear rolling down the thin white cheek. 

Without seeming to see she got up and moved 
around the room a moment, and then in a cheery 
tone began to tell her story. 

“ Hazel, dear, I’m going to tell you where I went 
last Sunday. It was so interesting! I wandered 
off alone out into the country, and by and by I heard 
some singing in a little log cabin by the road, and 
I slipped into the yard behind some crape myrtle 



Victoria Has a Finger in the Pie .151 

bushes all in lovely bloom, where I was entirely 
hidden. 

“ I looked through a crack between the logs, and 
there I saw three rows of colored children, and some 
older people, too, and at the organ — for there was 
a nice organ standing against the wall — sat Mr. 
Mortimer, that young man we met in the parlor 
the other evening, Mrs. Boston Mortimer’s nephew, 
you know. There were some other white young 
men, too; and they were all singing. 

“ And after the singing there was a prayer. One 
of the young men prayed. It was all about being 
forgiven for mistakes and sins, and not being worth 
Christ’s saving. It was a beautiful prayer! And, 
Hazel, it was Christie Bailey who prayed! ” 



CHAPTER XI. 

A DARING MANOEUVRE 

Hazel caught her breath, when she heard of 
Christie’s prayer, and a bright flush glowed on her 
cheek; but Victoria went on: 

“ Then he taught the lesson, and he did it well. 
Those little children never stirred, they were so 
interested; and just as they were singing the closing 
hymn I came away in a hurry so they would not 
see me.” 

Victoria had timed her story from the window. 
She knew the carriage had returned and that Mother 
Winship would soon appear at the doorway. There 
would be no chance for Hazel to speak until she 
had thought about the Sunday school a little while. 
The footsteps were coming along the hall now, and 
she could hear Ruth calling to Hazel’s brother. She 
had one more thing to say. She came quite near 
to the couch, and whispered in Hazel’s ear: 

“ Hazel, I don’t believe he has deceived you about 
152 


A Daring Manoeuvre 


153 


everything. I believe you have done him a great 
deal of good. Don’t fret about it, dear.” 

Hazel was brighter that evening, and often Vic¬ 
toria caught her looking thoughtfully at her. The 
next day when they were left alone she said, “ Tell 
me what sort of lesson they had at the Sunday 
school, Vic, dear.” 

And Victoria launched into a full account of the 
blackboard lesson and the queer-shaped little cards, 
which she could not quite see through the crack, 
that were passed around at the close, and treasured, 
she could see. Then cautiously she told of the 
interview with Mr. Mortimer and his account of 
Christie’s throwing the bottles out the door. The 
story lost none of its color from Victoria’s repeti¬ 
tion of it; and, when she finished, Hazel’s eyes were 
bright and she was sitting up and smiling. 

“ Wasn’t that splendid, Vic? ” she said, and then 
remembered and sank back thoughtfully upon the 
couch. 

Victoria was glad the others came in just then and 
she could slip away. She had said all she wished 
to say at present, and would let things rest now 
until Saturday evening when Christie came. 

Victoria had arranged with Mrs. Winship to stay 
up-stairs and have dinner with Hazel on Saturday 
evening while the family with Ruth Summers went 



154 


The Story of a Whim 


down to the dining-room. She also arranged with 
the head waiter to send up Hazel’s dinner early. 
And so by dint of much manoeuvring the coast was 
clear at seven, Hazel’s dinner and her own disposed 
of, and the family just gone down to the dining¬ 
room, where they would be safe for at least an hour. 

It was no part of Victoria’s plan that Mother 
Winship or Tom or the Judge should come in at 
an inopportune moment and complicate affairs until 
Hazel had had everything fully explained to her. 
After that Victoria felt that she would wash her 
hands of the whole thing. 

Mother Winship had just rustled down the hall, 
and Victoria, who had been standing by the hall 
door, waiting until she should be gone, came over 
to where Hazel sat in a great soft chair by an open 
fire of pine-knots. 

“ Hazel,” she said in her matter-of-fact, every¬ 
day tone, “ Christie Bailey has come to know if he 
may see you for a few minutes. He wants to say 
a few words of explanation to you. He has really 
suffered very much, and perhaps you will feel less 
humiliated by this whole thing if you let him explain. 
Do you feel able to see him now ? ” 

Hazel looked up, a bright flush on her cheeks. 

Victoria betrayed by not so much as the wavering 
of an eyelash that she was anxious as to the outcome 



A Daring Manoeuvre 155 

of this simple proposal. Hazel’s clear eyes searched 
her face, and she bore the scrutiny well. 

Then Hazel sighed a troubled little breath, and 
said: “ Yes, I will see him, Vic. I feel quite strong 
to-night, and — I guess it will be better, after all, 
for me to see him.” 

Then Victoria felt sure that it was a relief to 
have him come, and that Hazel had been longing 
for it for several days. 

Christie came in gravely with the tread of one 
who entered a sacred place, and yet with the quiet 
dignity of a “ gentleman unafraid.” Indeed, so far 
had the object of his visit dominated him that he 
forgot to shrink from contact with the fashionable 
world from which he had been so entirely shut away 
for so long. 

He was going to see Hazel. It was the oppor¬ 
tunity of his life. As to what came after, it 
mattered not, now that the great privilege of enter¬ 
ing her presence had been accorded him. He had 
not permitted himself to believe that she would see 
him even after he had sent up his card, as directed, 
to Miss Landis. 

Victoria shut the door gently behind him, and 
left them together. She had prepared a chair not far 
away, where she might sit and guard the door 
against intrusion; and so she sat and listened to the 




156 The Story of a Whim 

far-away hum of voices in the dining-room, the 
tinkle of silver and glass, and the occasional burst 
from the orchestra in the balcony above the dining¬ 
room. But her heart stood still outside the closed 
door, and wondered whether she had done well or 
ill, and feared — now that she had done it — all evil 
things that pass in review when one has finally 
committed one’s self to a doubtful cause and knows 
there is no turning back. 

Inside the door the room was very still save for 
the soft burning of the pine knots on the hearth and 
the ticking of a tiny crystal clock on the mantel. It 
was a beautiful room, to Christie’s unaccustomed 
eyes it was furnished sumptuously, and it had even 
in this short time taken on somewhat the character 
of its owner, her photographs, and small belongings 
scattered here and there. It seemed the fitting place 
to find the lady of his heart. His eyes lingered ten¬ 
derly upon it all as if he would stamp it clearly upon 
his memory for the long days when he would have 
nothing but its memory. Hazel sat at one side of 
the fire, her face slightly turned away. She did not 
look up until he came around to where she sat. 

Christie stood still before Hazel. The sight of 
her so thin and white, changed even from a week 
ago, startled him, — condemned him again, took 
away his power of speech for the moment. 



A Daring Manoeuvre 


157 


She was all in soft white cashmere draperies, with 
delicate lace that fell over the little white wrists as 
petals of a flower. Her soft brown hair made a 
halo for her face, and was drawn simply and care¬ 
lessly together at the back. Christie had never seen 
any one half so lovely. He caught his breath in 
admiration of her. He stood and did her reverence. 

For one long minute they looked at each other, 
and then Hazel, who felt it hers to speak first, as she 
had silenced him before, said, as a young queen 
might have said, with just the shadow of a smile 
flickering over her face, “ You may sit down.” 

The gracious permission, accompanied by a slight 
indication of the chair facing her own by the fire, 
broke the spell that bound Christie’s tongue, and 
with a heart beating high over what he had come 
to say he began. 

And the words he spoke were not the carefully 
planned words he had arranged to set before her. 
They had fled and left his soul bare before her 
gaze. He had nothing to tell but the story of 
himself. 

“ You think I have deceived you,” he said, speak¬ 
ing rapidly because his heart was going in great, 
quick bounds; “ and because I owe to you all the 
good that I have in life I have come to tell you the 
whole truth about myself. I thank you for having 



158 


The Story of a Whim 


given me a few minutes to speak to you, and I will 
try not to weary you. I have been too much trouble 
to you already. 

“ I was a little lonely boy when my mother 
died — ” Christie lowered his head as he talked 
now, and the firelight played fanciful lights and 
shades with the richness of his hair. 

“ Nobody loved me that I know of, unless it was 
my father. If he did, he never showed it. He 
was a silent man, and grieved about my mother’s 
death. I was a homely little fellow, and they have 
always said I had the temper of my hair. My aunt 
used to say I was hard to manage. I think that 
was true. I must have had some love in my heart, 
but nothing but my mother ever called it forth. I 
went through school at war with all my teachers. I 
got through because I naturally liked books. 

“ Father wanted me to be a farmer, but I wanted 
to go to college; so he gave me a certain sum of 
money and sent me. I used the money as I pleased, 
sometimes wisely and sometimes unwisely. When 
I got out of money, I earned some more or went 
without it. Father was not the kind of man to bfc 
asked for more. I had a good time in college, 
though I can’t say I ranked as well as I might have 
done. I studied what I pleased, and left other things 
alone. Father died before I graduated, and the aunt 



A Daring Manoeuvre 159 

who kept house for him soon followed; and, when 
I was through college, I had no one to go to and 
no one to care where I went. 

“ Father had signed a note for a man a little 
before he died, with the usual result of such things, 
and there was very little remaining for him to leave 
to me. What there was I took and came to Florida, 
having a reckless longing to see a new part of the 
world, and make a spot for myself. I never had 
known what home was since I was a little fellow, 
and I believe I was homesick for a home and some¬ 
thing to call my own. Land was cheap, and it was 
easy to work, I thought, and my head was filled with 
dreams of my future; but I soon saw that oranges 
did not grow in a day and produce fortunes. 

“ Life was an awfully empty thing. I used some¬ 
times to lie awake at night and wonder what death 
would be, and if it wouldn’t be as well to try it. 
But something in my mother’s prayer for me when 
I was almost a baby always kept me from it. She 
used to pray, ‘ God make my little Chris a good 
man.’ 

“ I began to get acquainted with a lot of other 
fellows in the same fix with myself after a while. 
They were all sick of life, — at least, the life down 
here, with hard work and interminable waiting. 



i6o 


The Story of a Whim 


But they had found something pleasanter than death 
to make them forget. 

“ I went with them, and tried their way. They 
played cards. I played, too. I could play well. 
We would drink and drink, and play and drink 
again — ” 

A little moan escaped from the listener, and 
Christie looked up to find her eyes filled with tears 
and her fingers clutching the arms of the chair till 
the nails were pink against the finger-tips with the 
pressure. 

"O, I am doing you more harm! ” exclaimed 
Christie. “ I will stop! ” 

“ No, no,” said Hazel. “ Go on, please; ” and she 
turned her face aside to brush away the tears that 
had gathered. 

“ I was always ashamed when it was over. It 
made me hate myself and life all the more. I often 
used to acknowledge to myself that I was doing 
about as much as I could to see that my mother’s 
prayer didn’t get answered. But still I went on 
just the same way every little while. There didn’t 
seem to be anything else to do. 

“ Then the night before Christmas came. It 
wasn’t anything to me more than any other day. 
It never had been since I was a mere baby. Mother 



A Daring Manoeuvre 161 

used to fill my stocking with little things. I remem¬ 
ber it just once. 

“ But this Christmas I felt particularly down. The 
orange-trees were not doing as well as I had hoped. 
I was depressed by the horror of the monotony of 
my life, behind and before. Then your things came, 
and a new world opened before me. 

“ I wasn’t very glad of it at first. I am afraid 
I resented your kindness a little. Then I began to 
see the something homelike they had brought with 
them, and I could not help liking it. But your letter 
gave me a queer feeling. There seemed to be obli¬ 
gations I could not fulfil. I didn’t like to keep the 
things, because you wanted a Sunday school. I 
was much more likely to conduct a saloon or a 
pool-room at that time than a Sunday school. 

“ Then I hung that picture up. You know what 
effect it had upon me. I have told you of my 
strange dream or vision or whatever it was. Yes, 
it was all true. I never deceived you about that or 
anything else except that I did not tell you I was 
not what you supposed. I thought it might embar¬ 
rass you if I did so at first, and then it seemed 
but a joke to answer you as if I were a girl. I 
never dreamed it would go beyond that first letter 
when I wrote thanking you.” 



The Story of a Whim 


162 

His honest eyes were on her face, and Hazel could 
not doubt him. 

“ And then, when the writing went on, and the 
time came when I ought to have told you, there 
was something else held me back. Forgive me for 
speaking of it, but I am trying to be perfectly true 
to-night. You remember in that second letter that 
you wrote me, where you told me that you were 
praying for me, and — you — ” Christie caught 
his breath, and murmured the words low and rever¬ 
ently, “ You said you loved me — ” 

“ Oh! ” gasped Hazel, clasping her white hands 
over her face, while the blood rushed up to her very 
temples and surged around her little seashell ears. 



CHAPTER XII. 


THE WHIM COMPLETES ITS JUSTIFICATION 

“ Forgive me! ” he pleaded. “ It need not hurt 
you. I knew that love was not really mine. It was 
given to the girl you thought I was. I knew without 
ever having seen you that you would sooner have 
cut out your tongue than write anything like that 
to a strange man. I ought to have seen at once 
that I was stealing something that did not belong 
to me in appropriating that love. 

“ Perhaps I would not have put it from me even 
if I had seen it. For that love was very dear to 
me. Remember I had never been loved in the whole 
of my life by any one but a mother who had been 
gone such years! Remember there was no one else 
to claim that love from you. 

“ And remember I thought that you would never 
need to know. I never dreamed that you would 
try to search me out. Your friendship was too dear 
to me for me to dare to try; and, too, I knew you 
163 


164 


The Story of a Whim 


would consider me far beneath you. I could never 
hope to have you for the most distant friend, even if 
you had known all about me from childhood. 

“ My hope for your help and comfort and friend¬ 
ship was in letting you suppose me a lonely old 
maid. Remember you said it yourself. I simply 
did not tell you what I was. 

“ But I do not take one bit of blame from myself. 
I see now that I ought to have been a good enough 
man to have told you at once. I should have missed 
a great deal, perhaps, as human vision sees it, have 
missed even heaven itself, unless the very giving 
up of heaven for right had gained heaven for me. 

“ I can see it was all wrong. The Father even 
then had spoken to my heart. He would have found 
me in some other way, perhaps; and it would have 
been your doing all the same, and I should have 
had the joy of thanking you even so for my sal¬ 
vation. But I did not, and now my punishment is 
that I have brought this suffering and disappoint¬ 
ment and chagrin upon you. And if I could I 
would now be willing to wipe out of my life all 
the joy that has come to me through companionship 
with you by letters, if by so doing I might save 
you from this annoyance. 

“ For I have one more thing to tell you, and I 
will ask you to remember that I have never but 



The Whim Completes Its Justification 165 

once, in so many words, dared to tell you this in 
writing, and then only in a hidden way, because I 
thought if you knew all about me you would wish 
me not to say it. But now I must tell it. The 
punishment to me is very great, not only that you 
suffer, but that I have merited your scorn — for I 
love you! I love you with every bit of unused love 
from all of my childhood days, in addition to all 
the love that a man’s heart has to give. I have 
loved you ever since the night I read from your 
letter that you loved me — a poor, forlorn, homely 
girl as you thought — and that you thought I loved 
you too; and I knew at once that it was so. 

“ I want you to know that since that night I 
have had it ever before me to be a person worthy of 
loving you. I never dared put it ‘ worthy of your 
love,’ because I knew that could never be for me. 
But I have tried to make myself a man such as 
you would not be ashamed to have love you, even 
though you could never think of loving in return. 
And I have fallen short in your eyes, I know. But 
in what you did not know of my life I have been 
true. 

“ Can you, knowing all this, forgive me ? Then 
I shall go out and try to live my life as you and 
God would have me do, and remember the joy which 



166 The Story of a Whim 

was not mine. But you gave me one joy that you 
cannot take away. Jesus Christ is my Friend. 

“Now I have said all there is to say, and I must 
go away and let you rest. Can you find it in your 
heart to say you forgive me ? ” 

Christie rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, 
and dropped his head on his hand, while the fire¬ 
light flickered and glowed among the waves of 
ruddy hair again. He had said all there was to 
say, and he felt he had no hope. Now he must 
go forth. The strength seemed suddenly to have 
left him. 

It was very still in the room for a moment. They 
could hear each other breathe. At last Hazel’s little 
white hand fluttered timidly out toward him, and 
rested like a rose-leaf among the dark curls. 

It was his benediction, he thought, his dream 
come true. It was her forgiveness. He held his 
breath, and dared not stir. 

And then, more timidly still, Hazel herself slipped 
softly from her chair to her knees before him. The 
other hand shyly stole to his shoulder, and she whis¬ 
pered : “ Christie, forgive me. I — love — you ” 

Then Hazel’s courage gave way, and she hid 
her blushing face against his sleeve. 

Christie’s heart leaped forth in all its manhood. 
He arose and drew her to her feet tenderly, and. 



The Whim Completes Its Justification 167 

folding his arms about her as one might infold an 
angel come for shelter, he bent his tall head over 
till his face touched her lily face, and he felt that 
all his desolation was healed. 

There were steps along the hall that instant, lin¬ 
gering noisily about the door, and a hand rattling 
the door-knob, while Victoria’s voice, unnecessarily 
loud from Ruth’s point of view, called: “ Is that 
you, Ruth? Are the others through dinner yet? 
Would you mind stepping back to the office and 
getting the evening paper for me? I want to look 
at something.” 

Then the door opened, and Victoria came smiling 
in. “ Time’s up,” she said playfully. “ The invalid 
must not talk another word to-night.” 

Indeed, Victoria was most relieved that the time 
was up, and she looked anxiously from Hazel to 
Christie to see whether she had done more harm 
than good; but Hazel leaned back smiling and 
flushed in her chair, and Christie, standing tall and 
grave with an uplifted look upon his face, reassured 
her. 

She led him away by another hall than that the 
family would come up by, and was in so much hurry 
to get him away without being seen that she scarcely 
said a word to him. However, he did not know it. 



168 The Story of a Whim 

“Well, is it all right?” she laughed nervously 
as they reached the side doorway. 

“ It is all right,” he said with a joyous ring 
in his voice. 

Through the hall, out the door, and down the 
steps went Christie Bailey, his hat in his hand, his 
face exalted, the moonlight “ laying on his head a 
kingly crown.” He felt that he had been crowned 
that night, crowned with a woman’s love. 

“ He looks as if he had seen a vision,” thought 
Victoria as she sped back to “ view the ruins,” as 
she expressed it to herself. 

But Christie went on, his hat in his hand, down 
the long white road, looking up to the stars among 
the pines, wondering at the greatness of the world 
and the graciousness of God, on to his little cabin 
no longer filled with loneliness, and knelt before 
the pictured Christ and cried, “ O my Father, I 
thank Thee.” 

Quite early in the morning Hazel requested a 
private interview with her father. 

Now it was a well-acknowledged fact that Judge 
Winship was completely under his daughter’s 
thumb; and, as the interview was a prolonged one, 
it was regarded as quite possible by the rest of the 
family party that there might be almost anything, 
from the endowment of a college settlement to a 



The Whim Completes Its Justification 169 

trip to Africa, in process of preparation; and all 
awaited the result with some restlessness. 

But after dinner there were no developments. 
Victoria moved restlessly from one chair to another 
on the wide hotel veranda, while Hazel sat in a shel¬ 
tered nook, her eyes quiet, her lips smiling. She 
seemed to be entirely at peace. She was bright and 
ready to be read to, but she made no comment on the 
event of the evening before. Victoria was sure, 
when she finally settled to the book that Hazel did 
not hear a word she was reading. Her eyes were 
dreamily in the distance where sparkled a tiny silver 
lake set about with palms and tall pines draped in 
waving gray moss against the blue Florida sky. Her 
thoughts were for something afar, not for the words 
of the book. 

Now and then a little tame chameleon scuttled 
across the rail of the veranda and looked at them 
comically with jeweled, curious eyes from behind a 
big pillar, his little white vest palpitating with the 
quick beating of his tiny heart, and Victoria had a 
curious feeling that the tripping of her own excited 
heart-beats ought to be as visible beneath her immac¬ 
ulate silk Sunday frock. 

The afternoon droned on. Presently Judge 
Winship sauntered out for a walk, having declined 
the company of the various members of his family. 



170 


The Story of a Whim 

Mother Winship calmed her anxieties, and concluded 
to take a nap. 

Christie had gone about his morning tasks joy¬ 
ously. Now and again his heart questioned what 
he had to hope for in the future, poor as he was; 
but he put this resolutely down. He would rejoice 
in the knowledge of Hazel’s forgiveness and her 
love, even though it never brought him anything 
else than that joy of knowledge. 

In this frame of mind he looked forward exult¬ 
antly to the Sunday-school hour. The young men 
when they came in wondered what had come over 
him, and the scholars greeted their superintendent 
with furtive nods and smiles. 

During the opening of the Sunday school there 
came in an elderly gentleman of fine presence with 
iron-gray hair and keen blue eyes that looked pierc¬ 
ingly out from under black brows. Christie had 
been praying when he came in. Christie’s prayers 
were an index to his life. During the singing of 
the next hymn the superintendent came back to the 
door to give a book to the stranger, and, pausing 
in hesitation a moment, asked half shyly, “ Will you 
say a few words to us, or pray ? ” 

“ Go on with your regular lesson, young man. 
I’m not prepared to speak. I’ll pray at the close if 
you wish me to,” said the stranger; and Christie 



The Whim Completes Its Justification 171 


went back to his place, somewhat puzzled and em¬ 
barrassed by the unexpected guest. 

He lingered after all were gone, having asked 
that he might have a few words with Christie alone. 
Christie noticed that Mortimer had bowed to him in 
going out, and that he looked back curiously once 
or twice. 

“ My name is Winship,” said the Judge brusquely. 
“ I understand, young man, that you have told my 
daughter that you love her.” 

The color softly rose in Christie’s temples till it 
flooded his whole face, but a light of love and of 
daring came into his eyes as he answered the unex¬ 
pected challenge gravely, “ I do, sir.” 

“ Am I to understand, sir, by that, that you wish 
to marry her ? ” 

Christie caught his breath. Hope and pain came 
quickly to defy one another. He stood still, not 
knowing what to say. He realized his helplessness, 
his unfitness for the love of Hazel Winship. 

“ Because,” went on the relentless Judge, “ in 
my day it was considered a very dishonorable thing 
to tell a young woman you loved her unless you 
wished to marry her; and, if you do not, I wish to 
know at once.” 

Christie was white now and humiliated. 

“ Sir,” he said sternly, “ I mean nothing dishon- 



172 


The Story of a Whim 


orable. I honor and reverence your daughter, yes, 
and love her, next to Jesus Christ,” and involuntarily 
his eyes met those of the picture on the wall, “ whom 
she has taught me to love. But, as your daughter 
has told you of my love, she must have also made 
you acquainted with the circumstances under which 
I told it to her. Had I not been trying to clear 
myself from a charge of deceit in her eyes, I 
should never have let her know the deep love I have 
for her; for I have nothing to offer her but my love. 
Judge Winship, is this the kind of home to offer to 
your daughter? It is all I have.” 

There was something pathetic, almost tragic, in 
the wave of Christie’s hand as he looked around the 
cabin. 

“ Well, young man, it’s a more comfortable place 
than my daughter’s father was born in. There are 
worse homes than this. But perhaps you are not 
aware that my daughter will have enough of her 
own for two.” 

Christie threw his head back proudly, his eyes 
flashing bravely, though his voice was sad: “ Sir, 
I will never be supported by my wife. If she comes 
to me, she comes to the home I can offer her; and 
it would have to be here, now, until I can do better.” 

“ As you please, young man,” answered the Judge 
shortly; but there was a grim smile upon his lips, 



The Whim Completes Its Justification 173 

and his eyes twinkled as if he were pleased. “ I 
like your spirit. From all I hear of you you are 
quite worthy of her. She thinks so, anyway, which 
is more to the point. Have you enough to keep her 
from starving if she did come?” 

“ O, yes,” Christie almost laughed in his eager¬ 
ness. “ Do you think — O, it cannot be — that she 
would come? ” 

“ She will have to settle that question,” said her 
father, rising. “ You have my permission to talk 
with her about it. As far as I can judge, she seems 
to have a fondness for logs with the bark on them. 
Good afternoon, Mr. Bailey. I am glad to have 
met you. You had a good Sunday school, and I 
respect you.” 

Christie gripped his hand until the old man almost 
cried out with the pain; but he bore it, grimly smil¬ 
ing, and went on his way. 

And Christie, left alone in his little, glorified 
room, knelt once more, and called joyously: “My 
Father! My Father! ” 

“ This is perfectly ridiculous,” said Ruth Sum¬ 
mers looking dismally out of the fast-flying car- 
window at the vanishing oaks and pines. “ The 
wedding guests going off on the bridal tour, and the 
bride and bridegroom staying behind. I can’t think 



i74 


The Story of a Whim 


whatever has possessed Hazel. Married in white 
cashmere under a tree, and not a single thing belong¬ 
ing to a wedding, not even a wedding breakfast — ” 

“ You forget the wedding march,” said Victoria, 
a vision of the organist’s fine head coming to her, 
“ and the strawberries for breakfast.” 

“ A wedding march on that old organ,” sneered 
Ruth, “ with a row of staring pickaninnies for audi¬ 
ence, and white sand for a background. Well, Hazel 
was original, to say the least. I hope she’ll settle 
down now, and do as other people do.” 

“ She won’t,” said Victoria positively. “ She’ll 
keep on having a perfectly lovely time all her life. 
Do you remember how she once said she was going 
to take Christie Bailey to Europe? Well, I re¬ 
minded her of it this morning, and she laughed, and 
said she had not forgotten it; it was one thing she 
married him for, and he looked down at her won- 
deringly and asked what was that. How he does 
worship her! ” 

“ Yes, and she’s perfectly infatuated with him. 
I’m sure one would have to be, to live in a shanty. 
I don’t believe I could love any man enough for 
that,” she said reflectively, studying the back of 
Tom Winship’s well-trimmed head in the next seat. 

“ Then you’d better not get married,” said Vic¬ 
toria. She looked dreamily out of the window at 



The Whim Completes Its Justification 175 

the hurrying palmettos and added: “ One might — 
if one loved enough;” and then she was silent, 
thinking of a promise that had been made her, a 
promise of better things, signed by a true look from 
a pair of handsome, courageous eyes. 

Christie and Hazel watched the fast-flying train 
as it vanished from their sight, and then turned 
slowly toward their home. 

“ It is a palace to me now that you are in it, my 
wife! ” Christie pronounced the words with wonder 
and awe. 

“ You dear old organ, it was you that did it all,” 
said Hazel, touching the keys tenderly, and turning 
to Christie with tears of joy standing in her eyes 
she put her hands in his and said, “ My husband.” 

Then as if by common consent they knelt together, 
hand in hand, beneath the picture of the Christ, and 
Christie prayed; and now his prayer began, “ Our 
Father” 




THE END. 

















































































